Every lament I own was a terrible gift bestowed upon by myself. And how generous that gift is, how easy it is to snatch it away, eagerly tearing at the paper until you reveal it. It tastes like blood, dripping from my own mouth into my stomach.
In the mirror I face my own pale reflection, a shimmering, muting, blue light illuminating around me like a halo.
This is what I want–and perhaps what I know I already have.
Once.
It's just behind me now, so distant and unattainable.
I have taken so much from myself, consuming and purging, gaining, and hating myself even more in the process.
I hate this cycle.
Now I'm looking down at the ground, a subtle reminder that I'm not all gone. That sometimes I have that desperate control, and everything else seems fine.
Because it is..until it's not.
I feel lost, I don't know what to do. Maybe I really am alone in this and it's all up to me. It's always been up to me, of course, but this particular occasion, it really, really is. And no one else can take it away expect for myself.
To pry it out and away from my mind. This sticky, dependent parasite. Disguised as a beautiful, malevolent sister.
And I am hers to eat.