My hair hangs down to my shoulders, ragged and blowing. It hangs into my face. I don't wish to know what I've become, and have long since destroyed every reflecting surface I could find. The particles still litter the ground beneath me, catching the flame's glare and reflecting it into my eyes. The shards fail to pierce my feet. They deprive me of the pain I thirst for to show I still live. That I am still human.
I don't think I am.