until praise runs solid

through my veins.

Sliding out in a frozen bead,

I'm bleeding,

cigarette still dangling from

deadened fingers.

Smoke lazily drifts to the

ceiling steeped in stains, while

my eyes track its dubious progress.

There's no air left in the small room,

It feels like an oven and I can't even

breathe.

Warmth fades

until blood hardens into

jagged crystals and it hurts

too bad to care.

and then, with an accidental step,

I'm burning again.

Soft, pliable.

No longer prone to shatter.

What did you do? I ask softly, scared.

I'm no good at in-between.

Laine Bitterman is nineteen years old and currently a sophomore

at Saginaw Valley State University studying Computer Science.

She writes as a method of very inexpensive therapy and is happy

to have her work published in Cardinal Sins.