Infection takes root at the base of your scalp, edging its way across the breadth of your forehead. Eczema, you think at first; but it itches, burns, creeping lower and lower until it searsthe soft, delicate lids of your eyes.

        The skin erodes easily under the prick of a fingernail, and beneath the shock of pulpy mucus, you recognize the plump red of Nathan’s lips charting a course across your collarbone.You dig deeper, reaching for the imprinted words you see burrowed in the crevice of your cheek.

        There—across the jutting white of your exposed cheekbone: You could change your mind, he’d murmured against your throat, which had remained calm under his ministrations, had not trembled with caught breath, panic nor pleasure. It wouldn't hurt to try.

        I can't, I can't, I can't—

        God, it’s really in there—you scratch harder, coating your hand with foul viscera. There’s bits you’re able to peel away, and you squint through blurred vision at the bloody chunks, all of which spell out the biting declaration of I feel sorry for the man who marries you. It’s made worse by the matter-of-fact tone, a truth casually spoken, and the fact that your favorite shirt is now soaked with blood. The bathroom mirror has been caught in the crossfire, and you know it’ll take the better part of the afternoon to try and salvage what you can.

*

        It’s spread, not down the slope of your shoulders as you’d expected, but deep into the bowels of your stomach.

        It could've been an ulcer, suggested WebMD, or indigestion, or anything else that a good dose of Pepto could’ve set right. But that was before you felt your ribcage crack open, bone bursting through the white stretch marks across your waist.

        It’s a violation—you spend twenty minutes clawing into your own belly, shifting past pulsing intestine and a pair of struggling lungs.

        You don’t know how he got in there, pimply face blinking out from between gaping flaps of torn skin. You don’t even remember his name—Connor? Caleb? His prepubescent cheeks puff in and out, in and out. A nasally voice, not his but the one he had responded to, rumbles from the depths of your gut:

        She’s so skinny, dude, she looks anorexic—

        You wonder if a hospital is worth the trip—is there any amount of stitches that can close this gaping void?

        Skinny?! exclaimed Connor or Caleb, smirk alight under the fluorescents of the middle school art room, she’s practically spilling out!

        You barely have health insurance. Besides, you can’t go to work like this, none of your size two shirts will contain the mess.

        You should call the carpet cleaner.

*

        There’s an ache in both your wrists, and you flounder as your grip on the lightest objects fails you. Spidery tendrils of blue curl around your wrist bones like tourniquets, squeezing off your circulation.

        You remember reading that blood looks blue under the skin.

        Rivulets trickle across your forearm like a winding tattoo, or a topographic map of an aquatic system. They twist into a tapestry across your pale skin, weaving into the shape of the gray scissors you used to own. The blue rivers rise to the surface, carving into you and lining you in red. You prod at the chasms, feeling for man-made rubber below.

        The rivers twist into words that curl from the crook of your elbow down to the jutting bone of your wrist:

        Maybe I should just kill myself.

        On your opposite wrist, your right hand, your dominant one, the cuts entangle to a point where even as you hook your finger into the holes and pry, aching to get inside, you can smell the response in the coppery rust that stings its way into your nose: Don’t say that in front of your sisters—I don’t want them getting ideas.

        No one would miss you no one would miss you no

                                                                             one

                                                                                        would

                                                                                                      miss

                                                                                                                me—

*

        It's taken your esophagus, eating away at the fibers of your larynx. If only you could swallow, or make any sound that isn’t the thick gurgle of bubbling acid as it sizzles through skin.

        What’s left of your face gleams crimson. your eyes—green, your best feature—bulge from their sockets, attached only by the thin muscle of Mr. Becker (Mr. B, he’s the Cool teacher)calling you Bright Eyes every day during second grade gym class.

        You strain your throat to scream, and your tongue swings on a pendulum before severing completely.

        No one sees your ravaged body. No one stares back as you choke on the dislodged muscle.

        Don’t be so dramatic, no one says with a hint of annoyance. Smile and come be part of the family.

        Your ruined mouth leaks, and the corners of your lips stretch upwards as the last of your teeth slip out.