I wasn't even a day old when I was first injected. Into my arm spilled the life I was bound to have. My mother watched my eyes fill with hope as my body filled with youth through this tube I grew to know all too well. I had come to love the sting through my veins and the taste of not tasting. The punctures in my skin felt like a fleece blanket but no one second guessed why they didn't scab over when it was no longer raining. And no one thought twice about the times I stomped on pins and needles hoping to feel the comfort of that old fleece blanket. All those fake coughs and stomach aches just to be wrapped up in something softer than tums and motrin. Do you know how it feels to be cold in the middle of June? To walk around with thick fabric draped over your shoulders like an invisible cloak, nobody saw the bruises. Well sometimes I get warm and I toss it off like I invented the throw blanket. But as soon as I reveal my purple skin, the surface begins to boil and I can feel myself evaporate. I can feel the division of my cells as each particle tries to escape. Piece by piece, my body is trying to break away, I need to get away. But my only safe haven is stuck in the syringe thats triggered my decay. Nirvana bullets shot through my veins and as I melted into a blank state, it told me I'd be okay. When I began to shake, it told me I'd be okay. When my body ached, it told me I'd be okay. When my skin started to wash away, it told me I would be okay.