finger nails digging into skin, drawing blood from the crescent moon shapes on calloused palms

matted hair in clumps on the floor from constant fiddling turned into ripping

purple bags under what once were eyes that sparkled, all hope inside the pale blue irises now put out like a match's flame

constant shiver from the frosty embrace of the ghosts of old lovers pulling her down into the depths of her already prevalent sadness

they say it's the things you love that eventually **** you, here's just another statistic