Her breath reeks of sorrow. It's a scent so strong her minty fresh teeth whitener tooth paste can't hide it. She's getting thin, her shirts fit her like drapes, loose and hanging. Her jeans try to pool at her ankles, oh how they try, they beg and plead, but her belt, three notches tighter, refuses, stone faced and cold. Her hair's thinning as well, once full and luscious and BLOND, now nothing but a dead limp thing cradling her shoulders. Her skin is as white as the bones popping out of her flesh. She's translucent, withering away, until there's nothing left, nothing left at all. She's so thin, a skeleton.  She's a Halloween decoration, not a person. Yet no one notices, no one at all. She's dying, slowly but surely, but no one cares. Not enough to stop her from wasting away, until there's nothing left to bury. No ones even trying. And she knows it, though they hide it well. They hide it behind sympathy and empathy, both fake, both lies, both empty promises and words. They hide it behind glassy smiles, and crumbling jokes, and feeble compliments. But she knows. She sees it in their glossed over dead eyes. She's a lost case. There is no hope.