Maybe I'll get as sick as last time. I'll go to stand up and be in another world, where Disney characters giggle and hold your hands and you're there just waiting to put your arm around me. Maybe the sky will be a beautiful rainbow that dances each time you smile. Even pain will feel orgasmic, each time that happy knife cuts down on your skin, skittles run out from your arms. Until you're so low on sugar you fall to the floor. We'll wake up, with a bruise upon our heads and realize there is no we, just only me. They'll take my temperature and my weight and tell me I'm dangerously below my BMI and I'll explain it's because the skittles wanted to be free. I'll walk out of that mental institution, with my Mothers eyes upon my loosely fitted jeans and she'll care, and maybe you'll care too. Maybe it'll be like last time, maybe it'll be just a fever and a girl too depressed to eat.