18 years old and still trying to lose myself on literature. Story writer, art maker, day dreamer, zombie killer
No Dinner when I get home. Please don't make me eat...
Burning It pools in my mouth, unpleasant, pain. It hurts, blistering the roof of my mouth as it slips down my throat leaving a raw numb sensation on in my across my tongue. The pain moves deeper, the scorching heat leaving a physical path down my windpipe. The sensation burns, burning my chest, my moth, throat, leaving a reminder. By burning me its reminding me that I did that. I bought it. I drank it. For the rest of the day it will be there, preventing me from putting food onto my mouth, and for that I am so, do, grateful.
