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Description
This is the story of a girl named Morphine:

---

"Morphine, Morphine, Morphine, that's who I am, but," She mumbles, " why can't I see through the threaded clouds?"

Morphine was once a youth who could ignite a smile in the rain and counter even the most morbid of frowns. Now, she is a youth of vacant hope and cob-web dreams- she can't even ignite her own smile.
Currently her eyes are too sad. Her skin, too pale. She knows this isn't her. This can't be her.
Morphine began biting her lips when she knew she would taste the star-filled nights, now when she does, she just tastes the tart skin of a ghost.
Her arms used to rival the world and spin with the blossoms, now their bone-thin, and weak, and bloodied.
( She feels certain that, that is not natural)
When she drew the blinds of her window before, every-thing in her room was filled with crayon-box colors and drowned in crystalline glitter; now she draws the blinds and the room gets darker, and darker, and darker. (She still doesn't understand)

---

"Morphine, Morphine, Morphine, that's who I am, but," She says rolling it off of her tongue, "remember when I could dream of the fire leaves in Autumn?"

Morphine knows about her orange lantern cheeks and cherry blossom eyes; she wants them back. She doesn't want her new blue-bruise cheeks and her raw-frigidity eyes.
Morphine doesn't like her current portrait. She just wishes with a click of her heels, that it could all be gone. Forever more.

---

"I'm not pretty," she tells herself, " now I'm just Morphine..."

Morphine knows she can be more like the old her. It isn't impossible. She can change as soon as she finds herself...

One day, she'll be the same, and all those storm-clouds will wash away; and the sun, just maybe, will resurface.

Description
This is the story of a girl named Morphine:

---

"Morphine, Morphine, Morphine, that's who I am, but," She mumbles, " why can't I see through the threaded clouds?"

Morphine was once a youth who could ignite a smile in the rain and counter even the most morbid of frowns. Now, she is a youth of vacant hope and cob-web dreams- she can't even ignite her own smile.
Currently her eyes are too sad. Her skin, too pale. She knows this isn't her. This can't be her.
Morphine began biting her lips when she knew she would taste the star-filled nights, now when she does, she just tastes the tart skin of a ghost.
Her arms used to rival the world and spin with the blossoms, now their bone-thin, and weak, and bloodied.
( She feels certain that, that is not natural)
When she drew the blinds of her window before, every-thing in her room was filled with crayon-box colors and drowned in crystalline glitter; now she draws the blinds and the room gets darker, and darker, and darker. (She still doesn't understand)

---

"Morphine, Morphine, Morphine, that's who I am, but," She says rolling it off of her tongue, "remember when I could dream of the fire leaves in Autumn?"

Morphine knows about her orange lantern cheeks and cherry blossom eyes; she wants them back. She doesn't want her new blue-bruise cheeks and her raw-frigidity eyes.
Morphine doesn't like her current portrait. She just wishes with a click of her heels, that it could all be gone. Forever more.

---

"I'm not pretty," she tells herself, " now I'm just Morphine..."

Morphine knows she can be more like the old her. It isn't impossible. She can change as soon as she finds herself...

One day, she'll be the same, and all those storm-clouds will wash away; and the sun, just maybe, will resurface.