Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.

A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint