my chest heaves and i ache to feel the blood pump through my veins. i feel as if i am withering away under the weight of the world. it is as if someone has cut me from the stem to decorate me in their vase, but how long can i stay bright red when you have hidden me from the sun and rain? my nails scratch the surface of my blue-tinged arms and i feel nothing. this has become a common theme: i feel nothing. it is, perhaps, better than feeling the longing for survival. or perhaps i'd rather feel the pain and the pulse. this is no longer a matter of the mind and the heart- this is a matter of life and death.
wilting away, withering away, wasting away.