I drag sharp nails across my chest, scratch my back until it bleeds, rub some supposed miracle cream all over but nothing seems to help. Is this what it comes down to?
I've been off the painkillers for three days now. First day was effortless.
He is on his way, in a cab as we speak. Father figure Frank is slowly moving through the night.
My sheets are stained with dark red spots. They smell like urine. Ive never longed for anyone, but if I were to start, I'd pick him and I'd pick now.
I feel like somethings alive inside of me, like my skin is trying to tell me something. In the mirror a horrid vision meets my eyes. I've scratched for hours, and now my back has the letter F in blood written over it. He will think I did this on purpose.