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"Her voice", her father says, is like, almost like, something that comes close to being beautiful. So he tells her it's not. "I heard you sing. It wasn't all that nice". She leaves him. She leaves everyone whom she comes across. Sooner or later, she is planning on leaving herself. There is a spark of theatrical behaviour, a wisp of something which resembles her mother. She tries to get rid of it, tries to peel her skin off. They don't get it, do they? She can't. She just can't.

She leaves her father; and everybody are like, yeah, dude, she'll turn around. You'll get her fixed. Fix her up real good. But the truth is, she cares just about enough to silence them, introspectively, writing about it for all those silent, listening walls. She has a streak of social anxiety, used to just be shyness, but it grew into fear. And she's 25, but every night she's got to hold on to a stuffed animal. And they're like; seriously, come on, dude. I'm so much better than her!

Her voice, she has a sand paper voice, but, but, sometimes, it's clear. I've heard it. It's like the wind. Though, just as her skin, it will turn raw again. Paper thin raw meat with her see through veins popping beneath her eyelids. When she moves, her joints squeak. When she breathes, a hollow between her heart and her lungs occasionally beeps away on its own. Her hands are always dry, her eyes are always large. She is an inverted fairytale, her beauty is not her sickening skintone, not the bony hands. And they're like; hey. she'll be fine. she'll go into remission anytime soon. But she never has before. And she hasn't stopped being ill at all the last 9 years. She doesn't dream of the light at the end of the tunnel. She thinks you're bullshitting her.

I think she's right about this one. In the same way that I think she might be right about having been in hell. Her nightmares are sucking her tears dry, chafing the skin beneath her eyes, going as far as terrifying the monsters behind the door. It's potent, she says. Deliberately strong. So something is wrong. Or has always been wrong. I'm not sure what she means, but she talks about the corner in your eye, the thing which cannot see. She says she can see. It's like an itch at the back of your mind; the feeling that there's nothing there.

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