Breathe in the dust, exhale the memories. You don't want those. They'll burn away, festering in the back of your mind if you let them stay. It's all very suffocating though. You know it's not just the dust, no, it's something far worse.

The buzzing roar of words, the cocoon of so-called perfection, the anguished scars you keep on the hush hush, the skipped meals, and drained glasses of water.

Burning, turning, enflaming around you, and cutting out your oxygen.

But your more than a good girl, you're a perfect girl. So you smile, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and bat your eyelashes a little. You're supposed to be pretty, too, after all.

If it hurts though, if stretching your dolled up lips that far stings and threatens to split them wide open, you have to keep your pretty little mouth shut. Not literally, of course. You still have to keep that big, bright, beautiful smile on.

Fake, phony, et cetera et cetera.

You've heard it all from that little voice in the back of your head.

But this is how real life works. Fake it 'til you make it, darling. And I've got this thing on lock.

Even if it kills me.

But they already have.