Hands are cold as ice.

She looks in the mirror, her eyes red and puffy from crying, tear tracks drying over her pale skin. She is beautiful, her blonde hair wavy and golden, but they do little more than disguise her tears. Her nose his aquiline and flawless save for a small zit at the top. Her lips are red but chapped and bleeding, and her jaw is strong. She has to be, for her sister, for her troubled brother. She whispers words no one will ever hear, says things she knows no one will beleive. She has to believe her lies. That's all she has become- a pretty face bent by lies and illusions. And fear. So much fear. She sinks to her knees, blood spattered on the hardwood floor. Deeper and deeper. The cuts scraped farther and farther. She knew it would hurt her. She knows it could kill her.
Yet she does it still.
Why? She'll never tell.
Because she is me.


-- Post From My iPhone