Depressive Dysphoria

It's hidden beneath the skin:
This creature of glass,
Constantly reforming,
Breaking,
And reforming again.
It travels through the veins
Living on the nutrients
That would otherwise
Keep the body healthy.
It wastes away the host
Scratching and Stealing
Beneath the surface
Until the skin becomes paper,
The host muttering
About want and discomfort
In a listless way
That gives those nearby
No need to heed
Those half assembled phrases
That evaporate on the air,
But pieced together tell of something:
A warning,
Which transforms
Into an invitation
For the next victim
To come
A little
Closer.
I have something to tell you.