I can see your bones. Your ribs, rows of dreams that you've abandoned; the tops of your hips, summits of mountains you had meant to climb. Your skin, once loosely draped over your skeleton is now stretched across your bones, threatening to give in to the stress of what precious little lies beneath. Your cheeks, now swallow, nurse shadows that match those around your eyes. Your eyes had once held a smile, honey; where did it go? You used to be beautiful. How can you think that this is pretty? There is no beauty in death.