She was disaster, most likely. There was no other way to put into words the whirlwind of a mess she was, the way she cling onto people the same way she cling onto lifelines, if a child holding onto to 15 different lifelines was possible. But wherever they tugged, she followed, and she held onto them as stubbornly as she could, even when one pulled too far away. It was rare she ever let go, but when she did, it stung.

Though the words were less than enough to capture the gaping hole in her heart, the cracks in the crevices of her skin, withering in her soul. Nothing to explain the emptiness, the wildflowers, that seeped through the cracks like sips of stolen breaths. I'm not anything, she thought. There's not much to save me now.

Nothing left of me to love, nothing of me left to honour.
Only devour.

She tried filling up the gaps with whatever she could get her hands on, be it biscuits, chocolate or cookies. But there was no way to pull her out from the abyss, that drowned her and dragged her deeper down as she gasped, it's teeth sinking into the tender flesh of ankles, ichor burning like acid through her skin.

Her stomach churned, burning with sickening intensity as a bitter smile crossed her face.

Maybe I am acid.
There isn't much of me left, is there?
Hopefully that means I can give people what I take from them, eventually. Even if it means I'll collapse.
Though there might not have been any truth in her words, when all she knew to do in the end, was take.

She was never used to giving, and with the fear that consumed her, all that meant was that she would break.