AmIEvenAlive?

Her skin was a portrait of perfection,

Her skin was the portrait of a living,

Growing,

Lie.

Her body was a glowing silhouette

Her body was a radiant

Decaying,

Mass.

Behind eyes that had seen so little

In such a long time

Was a longing

To see less

So to see nothing at all.

She practiced the art form

The one she lived.

To perfect her

They isolated her,

They cultivated her

She was their play thing,

She was their every thing.

 

(someday I’ll write something new…)

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