she trembled,
at the coldness of,
the bright and shiny blade,
on her skin.
-
but she didn't mind,
for it strangely helped,
she let out a breath,
that got strangled by a sob.
-
it became a routine,
to play the blade on her wrist,
almost like a violin,
whenever reality became to much to bear.
-
her wrist used to be,
a flawless canvas,
but soon became,
her private masterpiece.
YOU ARE READING
perfect imperfections
Short Storyimperfections, who's normal without them? hers were her scars and spots. but to him, hers were perfect. -warning- contains suggestion of cutting and is down right depressing
