My lungs are weak.

My mind is exhausted.

My lips kiss a glass bottle for breakfast

and I take medication for dinner

that's supposed to alter my mood.

My bones are brittle.

My hands are cold.

I'm running my fingers over scars

and purple bruises that are a result

of a coping mechanism and you.

My nails are blue.

My stomach is empty.

I'm neglecting to feed my body

as it growls and screams for a taste

of something other than famine.

My childhood is a blur.

My teenage years were psychotic.

I'm a living, intoxicated travesty

that is being drowned in an ocean

of salty tears and self-destruction.

I was doomed from the start

and doomed I shall always be.