I want to be pretty.
I want to stop eating.
I like the feeling of having an empty stomach.
That hollow sensation you get in your gut when you're running on whatever remaining energy you have left,
Like your demons are clawing at you from the inside, targeting your source of survival.
I like it. Is that wrong?
I don't sleep much. I give myself headaches.
I don't take care of myself. I don't want to. I don't have the motivation, anymore.
So do me a favor...
And make me pretty.
Even if that means painting my skin almost vampire-white,
Or cracking my lips,
Closing my eyes,
And letting my first kiss be the sweet relief of death.