I comb back my thick, stringy hair from my face, wondering when the blood had gotten into it, when it had suddenly become so heavy.
And then I stare at myself in the mirror, because I think to myself, maybe I should try this again.
My lips are split open, and my skin is yellow and paper-thin. My eyes have sunken into the crevices of my jutting skull, and those dark rings under my eyes, they look like years-old bruises, and then I can’t help but laugh, because that’s quite close to the truth.
The webbed crimson in my eyes tell of the veins that have burst apart there, and then as I start to wash the pitiful filth off my hands, I think, I’ve turned into such a wonderful vessel of disappointment.