Underneath the skin we have the same bones.
Underneath that boy with his head hung low. He has the same bones.
Underneath that girl with scarred arms. She has the same bones.
Underneath that plastered smile they both wear.
They are broken.

Most days.
I can't really explain it.
I will need you to work with me.

Most days.
I can't see in front of me.
My eyes feel like they're cracking open.

Most days.
I can't write a simple word.
The letters get mixed up and my hands too shaky.

Most days.
I can't breathe or speak or even function.
I'm drowning but nobody notices because I'm good the motions.

Most days.
I can't get rid of the cold in my hands.
I compress a fist, so the cold hurts, and nails pinch my palm.

Some days.
I can live wonderfully.
But then again that's not most days.

You did this.
Maybe she overreacted.
But you knew she would.
She was doing quite well.
I don't know why that bothered you so much.

You did this.
Did you know she was recovering?
She could have had a future.
She no longer felt like she needed the sting.
I don't know why you needed to ruin that.

You did this.
Maybe she ignited it this time.
But you told her she wouldn't detonate again.
And take a Look at what you left in your war path
****, you REALLY did it this time.

I know you love the hollow feeling, but eat.
I know the figure you're striving for is so close, but eat.
Eat because eventually you will reach your goal, but it will not be enough.
Eat because you won't want your hair and teeth to fall out.
I understand you are scared, but eat.
I understand you are fine, but eat.
You must eat because you want to graduate.
You must eat because you want to have a family, to be there for your family.
EAT, because it is wonderful to live long and love life.
I'll eat when you eat.

The glassy clear water does not know.
But it will soon no longer be so pure.
My brush is running out of time.
I must finish the stroke of color.
The task of keeping the color alive is difficult.
The color once as vivid as the sun, is now of an older paper.
The fading of yellow.
The color once as rich as the most palatable grape, is now of a sickly bellflower.
The fading of purple.
The color once as alive as the fish in the pond, is now of a dwindling flame.
The fading of orange.
The color once as striking as the sky, is now of a mountain with no wanders upon it.
The fading of blue.
The color once as atrocious as the fresh blood from a crying girls arms, is now the discolored water she lay in.
The fading of red.
The colors start as beautiful possibilities.
Yet we always dip our brushes back in the pure water to redeem our admired colors.
The fading of colors is the not the fading of excitement.
It is the fading of accustomed standards.
The sun wanted change of scenery.
The grape longed to be big.
The fish desired to view others.
The sky aspired to change with the sun.
The girl begged for relief, she begged for the standards the fade.
The fading of colors.