I was born with glass bones and paper skin. And organs made of tissue paper.

Isn’t it ironic? Organs made of tissues. Some second-grade humor, hot out of the oven.

In my veins runs, not blood, but ink. Ink, that runs a midnight blue from the open wounds in my chest.

You were born with skin sharp as glass, and knives for fingers. Every touch is a stabbing pleasure, with great consequences. My paper skin bleeds blue as I let your body rip across mine.

You howl like a dog at the moon. The moon, unreachable even in all its glory, does not speak back. Your howling continues and I grow weary at the sound. Every cry tears through me as if you were cutting me again.

So I lie to you. Over and over again, like a wave beaten against the shore until it can move no more. I tell you exactly what you want to hear. And you take it. Until my lies come back exactly like the tide comes back in.

But it’s not lying if I’m making you happy, is it? My tired, paper heart can’t decide anymore.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

There it is. My blue-stained, crepe paper vitals. Pressing on like the little engine that could, or some other bullshit. Probably more like an endlessly ticking clock. Perhaps the one that chased Captain Hook for years.

Ticktickticktickticktick…

Thumpthumpthumpthump…

I wonder what would happen if the noise just…suddenly…

stopped…