You pick, pick, pick until all the meat is off the bones. Until I have been wore so thin that I am practically invisible. You see right through me, as if I were only a ghost. Maybe I am, maybe I am merely a shadow of someone I used to be. Something I was never meant to be. So you whittle away at my existence, slowly. I close my eyes when I feel the end come near. Not a sight to see, nor a sound to hear. Only a hand to hold, as I am gently pulled into the dark. Some ones shadow will I be no more.