It is an everlasting headache,
one to torment the soul.
It is a constant throbbing of the cranium,
from which I suffer.

It is the feeling of a knife on your skin,
It is the feeling of a bat against your bones
It is the feeling of wires bound around your chest
                               squeezing till' you nearly burst.

It is the result of loneliness
It is the result of starvation
It is the result of an addiction
                            to something quite sick.

Something form the yellow of your nails
the shedding of hair
and thin skin
where veins pulse a quiet blue.

A something not many people notice,
save for their glossy eyes;
   windows to the soul they once had,
but lost, so long ago.