We hide in this shell, hoping that no beams of light will shine through, casting our shadows on the wall.
No one can know we are here. We are memories and dustbunnies that used to be known, but now we are the fragments of broken hearts and broken dreams that were tossed to the wind, disowned, and dismayed.
We are corpses of the lost children, wolves preparing to devour us at the slightest provocation.
We did not ask for this. This was thrusted upon us, a screaming child abandoned. And now this child is ours. We bear it's weight and needs, hiding it's flame from those who would rip it away, no matter how much it annoys or decieves us.
We love the child, the illness. It is a part of us, that can never be killed. Only broken, shattered, beaten and abused. But it will never go away.
To be dead, is to waver the flame. For what life is there, when there is no hope, or love, or being wanted?
We can break, but we cannot die.