It's an art to be hollow, I’m hollow. There’s nothing behind my blank eyes. Blackness and silence, massacres and screaming, pupils, sensory perception, no real love or lust, the occasional blinking, aloneness and betrayal, my jaw hurts, but it's not dislocated, it's not broken, I've suffered worse, my tongue gets me in trouble, and I don't like people for too long, I can't, and I can't like them too much, I don't think I've slept in 7 nights. I want it to rain, I don't know when it will, but when it rains hard, that's how I feel inside, because I always seem to skirt back into an unfamiliar reality and wonder what terrible thing I've done or said aloud. Swollen jaw, magician's girl who doesn't flinch or turn away when they saw me in half, I am important enough to need a psychiatrist, I take soothing salt baths whenever I want, I think people will grow old and forget me, I'm disturbed, I have crying fits followed by hideous laughter, a living doll, I can walk, I can talk, cook, write and interact with others, that's what it's like, to be a living doll, to have smooth skin of pale plastic and white wax, different shades, silken rosy-blonde hair, dead gray jewels for eyes, it's horrible.