Thorns

<-- still not my picture.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Looking at the thin translucent skin that encases me, my armour, my protection. Two collarbones protrude from my flesh, pressing against their cobwebby shield, as if trying to escape. I turn my head from one side to the other, staring at the changes in the hollow of my throat. The changes in the shadows cast by the muscles under my skin. They look like thorns. Thorns under my skin. It's times like these when I have to question what people say about me. The things I never believed, "oh, you're so beautiful” How can thorns be beautiful? They hurt when they cut you. Slicing through the thin protection over your bones, cutting into the bloody prison where your heart beats. How can I be beautiful? Look at my face. My eyes. They look like pools of water. Like dew. Clear and hollow, with dots of onyx to mark the middle. Like a lonely island in a shallow sea. I am not beautiful, but she says I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. Who do I go to when I can’t believe myself anymore?

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This was written for a friend of mine last week, I think?
Yeah.
I like it.