She is the picker.

From her friends, her lovers, her sweethearts; she picks them apart and takes the best of them, sews their pieces to her heart and skin. She walks in daylight but the sun never touches her – it touches only what she has picked to reveal of her others, their mirage of selves.

She is the picker and no one else, consumed by her disguise, neglecting the fleshy paleness of her own features. Ignorant of her moroseness, she tacks the dulling, shimmery pieces to her fading heart, blissful in their sheen and sparkle. But underneath she breaks to pieces and crumbles to dust, blown out and away from her colorful shell by her own shallow breaths.