The rain followed her home every night and squeezed through the cracks in her eyes and found its way into her bloodstream and coursed through her veins. Quite frequently it would turn to fire and burn its way almost to the surface to boil beneath her skin and draw blood from flesh. The screams that echoed continually in every fibre of her being somehow were contained within and only rarely broke free, and even then it just made it worse. Every breath just made her more aware of her excess. Every movement made her conscious of the uncomfortable sensations of being. Every line, curve, and contour must be perfect. It must be, or the world will collapse.

I feel like hard
plastic
soft
skin
sweet like
cherry drops
cold like
winter
and bitter like
the harsh wind
that blows on 
the days the snow falls. 

I feel.

I feel.
I feel the biting wind on my skin,
and the burn in my legs,
and the strain in my back.
I feel my tired eyes,
and my emptiness.
I feel the darkness,
and the grab of a familiar force.
I feel the suffering,
and then,
all at once,
I feel nothing.