She’s thin air.
She’s a wisp of a spirit tied to a rotting shell of a body.
She’s made of Prince Rupert drops that have been shattered a million times but still try to hold their shape.
She’s a black hole of negativity, slowing growing larger with every sadness despair loneliness that she absorbs, slowly coming closer to her own collapse.
She’s self destructive.
She’s made of it, made of little wisps of worry and anxiety, nothing else in her skeleton but grief and terror.
She’s so scared.
She’s a time bomb.
She’s ticking towards zero, rewinding herself when she can, but sometimes (all the time) she doesn’t want to.
She’s ready to burst.
She’s pain and nothing else, all her sensors and neurons geared to only feel the sharpdullsearing ache in her heart and soul and body
She is a girl who hurts inside.
She thinks that no one cares about her and that she doesn’t deserve to live another day, another hour, another minute another second another blink—
She’s scared to die. But sometimes, she thinks she’s even more scared to live.