By Jeanne Tokay
Girl, age 16.
Tethered by cups of praise
Glowing, holding her close from the inside as though her skin might burst as it fights to contain the stars piercing her eyes and ears
Choking her senses
Turning shades brighter
Laughs louder
Touches softer
The reds and blues humming with energy.
Yet it digests.
Distilled.
Until the glass hardly resembles what she had come to recognize as herself.
Her reds and blues fade.
Her soul so dull it takes vibrancy with it.
This shell is not made of stars - it is purely chemical.
She looms.
Empty.
Void of purpose.
She starves
but her stomach is full.
The warmth lingers.
Just a taste.
So tempting and distant.
Her gut coils and writhes
The heat burns, her mouth dries
Her mind twists.
And at last, again, she sips.