She dreamed of bones. Obvious, protruding from her skin like black rocks on the shore of a stormy beach. She wanted them to define her, to make her. Masked only by a thin sheet of snow-coloured skin they would be her. She would be the walking skeleton -the haunted remains of what was once a pure soul. The origins of children’s nightmares -she would shake them awake with her silent screams. The screams that were only heard when her worn joints rubbed together in a fit of pure agony. The screams that hid behind the ever-constant repetition of the phrase that had become the entirety of her vocabulary,
“I’m not hungry.”
The screams that filled the ever growing empty space of her clothes which hung like a black cloud of dread and fear and regret over her.
The screams she longed to voice.

She would not stop. She would never stop.
Not until she was bones. Not until she was perfect.