Suffering is a skill. I am
downstairs in the cold,
balancing deformed feet
on the scale, throwing up
water. I don’t need to paint
my nails, they are already
this fascinating cyan. I am
blanching at every touch,
a preview of a ghost, pressured
to dissolve. I stopped blinking,
my pupils expanding to catch
the visual snow, ice blue irises
burning. The supplements
mimic salvation, there is no
real bypass to avoid this 
devastation. Its devotion,
entrenched by image catalogs
and spreadsheets, these white
hands grip each digit tighter
as months pass. I am dedicated
to misery, locked in rituals, fingers
clamped around my upper arm.
The skin pales with the imprint
of a shackle, my own claw marks.
When the blood doesn’t return
it heralds something malign.