Anne Bost, 10, "Clouded Perception"

Hunger nests in the valley of my stomach where birds sound alarms as their wings flap and squawks screech from their beaks. Sorrow rests on the crinkled skin between my quirked brows. It puts its bag down and makes its home there. It layers bricks and builds walls that hold down my crest fallen face and forces my eyes into a half-lidded position. My blue eyes are a boat riding the waves of regret. A clear ocean void of meaning. Hope sits on the creaking wood of the deteriorating boat. It’s the only thing that stands between hope and the threat of drowning underneath meters of weighted self-hatred. Uneasiness burrows lines into the peach-colored skin of my cheeks, lips tugging to a frown. Curiosity floats through the air and reaches my nose with the rushing wind. Acid seems to pool in my mouth, and I wonder, is any of this real? The screaming of my stomach steals my focus and distorts the surroundings into black and white with a flickering of red. I fear I’ve begun rotting before oxygen has left my lungs. My hand reaches out to catch the fleeting sunlight of the day. My skin is darkening and decomposing. My nails are withering and falling off. My bones are becoming weaker by the second and they shine through the thinning layer of skin andI snap back to reality.

Maybe I should eat something?