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I feel like all my definition is deteriorating into smoke and ash. The cremating process is burning me, pieces of me away as I walk through this hell of dense ash, fog, smoke, and hate. I feel as my thoat closes from the thickening of the air to where I can no longer call out. Instead of a hug or a gentle touch, one can only feel the heat slap your face and the laughter drum gainst your ears. Those drunk ba****ds tottering round you, poking and prodding you. They never learn their lessons the first time. Biting down on your finger like a pacifier and indulging in the sweet pain from yet another peircing is the only thing you have to look forward to, yet you are not even allowed that simple blissful feeling. You try your hand out at fake crying, but you pull it off at the wrong time. While on the computer afterwards, your mother gets angry at you saying that you're probably writing about how your mother abused you or something, and that she only pulled "lightly" on your earings, even though she herself was drunk at the time as well.