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Perfect.
Perfect,
Perfect.
I am not.
No perfect.
Worthless.
Alone.
Whore.
Bitch.
Nothing.
I bring my wrist to my mouth and sink my teeth in. Coppery penny flavoured liquid coats my tongue. The taste of life running through my veins and the pain has me moaning.
The gash isn’t too deep. A small pool of blood wells up and drips from the cut. I stand up and move towards the perfect wall. Dipping my finger into my homemade ink, I start to draw.
Line.
Curve.
Curve.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Line.
Dip.
Space.
Line.
