i take bites out of myself at odd intervals. 
i chew on my fingers until they are sore,
bloody, mangled things. i do not sleep
well. my dreams are full of has-been
lovers who return each night and day
to torment me with their escape into
glamorous lives that have nothing to
do with me, their presence in my dreams
only  reminds me that they do not think
of me, do not miss me, are glad to be
rid of me.

i spend most waking hours lost in books
that detail the lives and deaths of doomed
characters whose existence is seemingly
more real than my own.

one day i shall simply disappear and there will
be nothing left but buttons and bits of cloth,
having consumed myself entirely from the outside

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