Bonafide.

I am a house of cards in a land where vulnerabilities are barred. The air stinks of flesh and pain, some nights I sing about all that I contain. Tears leave my cheeks looking pale, my hair uneasily stick to my face. There is a strange tightening in my throat, I gulp it down, but it refuses to let go.

The left side of my head throbs excruciatingly and a void echoes of what once had been. It's like the screeching of claws on a blackboard, Lemon on a cut lip.