Thinner and Weaker

I look like I was conjured up by Tim Burton
My skin is pale and becoming paler everyday
I’m barely skin and bones, all sharp angles and thinning wrists, protruding ribs and losing my curves
My eyes sink deeper by the minute, so purple I look freshly beaten again
I’m losing colour and softness
I’m only pencil drawings and line art
I’ll vomit up the last of my brightness if you touch me enough
Hold me a little too tightly and I’ll crumble into a poor little victim again
Constantly paling, sickly, and thinning
Soon I’ll be made of nothing but bones that smell like weed and cigarettes