My bones are vulnerable. My muscle is wasting. My skin has lost its rigor and hangs lazily from my limbs. I have the body of an old woman: haunted, empty, and in pain. I don’t think I am anything but ugly, and this as much justification for continued attacks on my body, as well as the result of these attacks. Cigarette burns and scars mark the path of my self-hatred like scorched earth.








