My skin becomes colder and dry,

Cracks form and blood seeps out,

My hands become ashy and scratches of easily,

It slowly turns to dust,

My skin turns brown with no moisture left,

I crack with every move I make,

My dust falls to the floor with every stir,

With every small breathe I blow away,

I fall to the floor as a pile of dirt,

The wind gust comes and I go far away,

In all sorts of directions,

It doesn't matter though,

Because I never existed anyway.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

itz not friggin fair...wut the hell iz wrong w/ me?

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