She suffocates on passing days.
Brain shriveling, mid-sentence at the white fist inside her chest.
She picks on the acne across her chin. Scratches off the drying pus.
Fills in the sparsity of her brows before going about the day.
She convinces her wheezing laugh in the wardrobe.
Mind shriveling, she's laughed at even at the lowest tone.
She picks on the hem of her skirt. Scratches on the scabbing stain.
Must empty the jar up her neck after collecting today.
She picks up a dead mouse between them hardbound.
Body shriveling, worms mid-action in decaying stink.
She panders to their needs; buried in mellifluous rain.
She is, once again, a statue in her head.
In veritable sky, takes out a familiar garbage.
Heart shriveling, She mutters until full of herself.
She picks on her name. Scratching the pus and mud it comes with.
Can she empty the jar up her neck in the morning?