She craves death. Her teeth, chomping down through the layers of a facade she calls her personality.
Take a bite, and relish in what lies below. The cold, bitter suffering of a decrepit soul. Not some bubble gum princess with her bleached white teeth, casting all doubt away.
It's amazing what sleeves can do for a girl.
Her father grabs her by her slender wrist, his hand pressing against the fresh wounds.
Could she beg him to press harder?
That's right, dangle her off the ground. Clench the fist harder.
Let the bones crack.
His words, like a whip to her back, cutting through her until the truth bleeds her dry.
Now toss her to the cold cement floor. Skin her elbows, until they're raw and red. Nobody will see the bruises.
She lies down, looking at the pipework ceiling. At this point, she should be groping for the light switch. A way to get up, or a hand to hold.
She digs her spine further into the ground.
Scrape off the glitter, speck by speck. Scrape off everything that has defined her, everything that is so wrong, and broken.
Let her break with it.
Digging her heels to the ground, to feel that cement abrading her one more time, she ascends the steps.
Please trip, she begs her feet.
They refuse to listen. They take her to the kitchen, commanding her to open the drawer and pull out the scissors.
No, not this time, they tell her. She catches her reflection in the window. That long blonde hair flowing down her back.
That long blonde hair, floating down to the ground.
Goodbye bubble gum princess.
There's someone calling her name. It's not her mother, long dead, and she doesn't believe in angels. Are the demons finally calling her home?
She punches the glass, watching the blood trickle out from her knuckles. It stings.
She savors the pain.
The keys to the car dangle from the hook at the door. The metal is cool beneath her touch, yet burns in her palm, beseeching her to take them out to play.
She runs a bloody finger against the wall, signing two letters that tell him just what she thinks of him. Language her mother would have never approved of.
But she's not here. She's gone, and if that storm outside is any omen, she'll be joining her tonight.
The rain soaks her to the bone. If she stands here long enough, will she drown?
She drives with the top down.
Red lights mean go, right?
Doesn't matter, because she is, a wet foot sinking to the pedal. The radio blares the sound track to her life.
The road is slick, as slick as the lies that roll off her tongue.
'I swear, it was just an accident.'
'No, everything's fine at home.'
Taking her hands off the wheel, she lifts them to the sky.
"I'm ready!" she calls out, not relenting on the gas.
No one answers.
No one ever answers.
She closes her eyes and counts backwards.
The rain pours.
The lights flash.
The thunder cracks.
The demons call her name.