She'd like to believe that she's grown accustomed to the feeling- the shoulder blades protruding awkwardly from her skin and the bleeding that continuously seeps through her shirt. It is difficult to imagine that some degree of tolerance has not been attained, it must have been grasped away and greedily consumed. She is a vain thing and gives in to compliments that aren't compliments at all. "You have a high pain tolerance," they say and she smiles, believing herself mighty.
What can it matter, when on days such as this one, she is folded into an upside-down U in her physical agony? When the pain appears any different than the usual ache, she is lost unto her very self and becomes another that is not an I but an it. Dreary non-existence as a human being.
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