People are considered blank canvases from the moment they are born. I guess that's why self harm has become so romanticized. Truth be told, there's nothing more intimate than the relationship between a girl and her blade. The way it whispers sweet melodies as it glides across her milky skin like a sled on snow. The way blood drips as if seeing the Crimson could do more healing than any apology would. I guess that's why she does the things she does. Maybe that's why she can't be saved. Soon enough she will be scarred in ways beyond the eye's view; her sleeves hiding dirty secrets she dare not tell.
She says it makes her feel alive, but I wish she realized only the dead go six feet under.