I want|to|be perfect

Pink hair dye that didn't go pink.

Icey tears blurring my vision as I run from him in the night.

Falling, tripping in the darkness.

Face pressed against the broken glass carpet, comforting caressing.

Barely pink strands sticking to a damp forehead.

Letting him win.

Shaking, shivering, succumbing to him again.

I have an appointment with my Therapist tomorrow. Bah. I don't have anything to say to her, except that I'm getting fatter. I don't want her to see me like that. My breasts seem extra huge and so does my stomach, maybe my period is coming. Maybe not.

Why is everything I write shite? It's boring and monotonous, and always too depressing. It's how I feel so go figure what my life is worth.

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