I hold my thermometer 

like a cigarette, 

carelessly flicking my fever

into the ground and stomping 

it out with my scarred feet.

I've grown sick sick sicker 

waiting to get better;

feel my thoughts withering 

away, collapsing, shivering. 

I hold my tongue 

like speaking may get me shot-

I am fine fine fine ,

just a little under the weather,

with some mental chagrin. 

My lips crack and burn

in a rhythmic way,

and the villagers sway 

to my ancient ill regard 

hardened battle hymn.

I am tepid in a 

dissapointing way,

a girl constructed from broken bones 

a little grey bottle protege;

I was not meant to turn out this way.

I turn on my heel 

and wander inside,

smoke sticking on my skin.