Beneath me the ground is warped and unsteady. Littered with splintered glass and dirty needles, damp with blood shed and decay. My feet are bare, once ripened skin is now dented and torn. With each sting i push harder, pressing my soles down against sharp relief, the soothing edge of a discarded razor blade.

All i keep thinking about are the grapes sitting inside my stomach right now. Small pockets of nutrition leaking into my body. They shouldn't be there.

I shouldn't be here. There needs to be less, so much less. Bones are a little more exposed, weight slightly smaller, belt fastened tighter - and yet the space i claim will not shrink.

There are two of me. The first is a fictional character. An shy actress that clams up on performance. Dressed up and covered in make-up. Concelear dabbed over grey spots; obscuring tired days and long nights, mascara flicked across lashes, a dab of lip-gloss to seal a dry surface. Looking the part, even if not sounding or feeling it. Conversation and recorded laughter timed inside her head, she hopes it will come out in tune and in the right order. She hopes she won't mess up her lines, and most importantly that they will not pick her out as a fraud.

Standing in the shadows, on the other side of the mirror, a hoarse voice whispers sweet misery. My costume is stripped away, dancing shoes neglected, stars and glitter rubbed to just darkened smudges. I don't have to pretend anymore. Phone plug pulled from the wall, lights low, air smelling of burnt out candles. Comfortable sadness.