I stared blankly at the mirror across from my bed. My face pale, my expression flat. My hair fell loosely to the sides of my colourless cheeks. I brought a hand to my lips, slowly they were chapped, and I recalled a time when I would go out and paint them a bold red. Now a faint pink sits upon them like they want so desperately to be loved again but they are lacking the strength. I can see my ribs beneath my skin, pressing, screaming to be let out of the home that is destroying itself. I lean over the side of my bed and pick up my boyfriends t-shirt and let it cover the sight of flesh and bone, it was making me ill. It’s also the only piece of clothing in my room that doesn’t reek of tobacco. He never approved of the habit, but it kept me sane for a little while. I looked down at my legs, red lines across thighs from a night when I prayed, if I could only kill the worst of me, I could be better. I lean over the bed again and grab my cigarette carton. I haven’t left the house in about a week, I think. I’m not sure. I haven’t been keeping track of the days, or how many cigarettes I smoke a day, but someone must be replacing packs when I’m sleeping, I sleep a lot these days.