Her words.

Her words fill the space of her therapist's cushy office. Sanitized air mingles with empty breaths.

The nights are still the worst. Porn and masturbation so I can pretend I'm not alone. Metallic kisses to subdue tears. Fingers scooping the emptiness and body lurching in response. Ash burning linen. Trying to hibernate in a nest of blankets that are never quite warm enough. Waking several times with a start from dreams of being pushed down stairs. Wonder if next time I fall from a building I'll make contact with the pavement. If I died they wouldn't find me till tomorrow night. Slipping further and further into dysfunction. "You're pretty," they say. "You're nice and smart and funny and everyone likes you." But there is no proof and it's not enough, anyway. I don't want everyone to like me. I only want you.

She's just blood, bile, smoke and bones.