I went to sleep last night with a ringing in my stomach and woke up screaming when it wrapped itself around my throat. I've awoken something within me and I've forgotten how to breathe since.

It snakes its way into every inch of my bones until I'm finally engraved with all the fear and regret I've been holding on to. This thing grows stronger with every skipped meal, ignored text and alarm skipped until I've forgotten how to breathe.

How do I breathe? How do I breathe?

How do I destroy this thing inside me without destroying myself? How do we separate our breaths when it's found its way into my lungs? How do I mask the fact that I'm terrified of it reaching my heart when it's only a few beats from breaking through my ribcage?

The perpendicular lines of the bathroom tiles are still imprinted on my knees from when I last sold my body to the toilet bowl. The insides of my throat are still sore from the sharp edges of my nails. My tears keep blurring my vision but you are always there.

I learn how to sew a smile across my face and tattoo the phrase 'I'm fine' across my tongue because my honesty is too attention seeking. My honesty doesn't fit the qualifications of what it should be; it's not real enough. As if trading my heart and lungs for a few empty numbers was not painful enough. As if the million little girls who practice their math on bathroom scales is not proof enough.

So I shamelessly demand my washed up soul back from God, ask him to cut it into bite-sized pieces in the hopes that it will make me feel full again.

Last night this thing exploded in my heart and my insides are now a graveyard.

Last night I got lost in a graveyard but found my own tombstone.

Last night the walls of my room closed in on me.

The candles burned out.

Last night I watched the stars fall down, but I couldn't find you.