Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.

A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.