She wore black too often and always had eyeliner falling down her face; when people told her she looked pretty and mysterious and said they’d do anything to solve the puzzle that was her mind, she’d laugh at them because there was no substance behind her thin smiles and dead eyes, just sadness that no boy had ever sucked out of her, and God only knows how many had tried.
Most mornings, she swallowed too many painkillers with shots of whiskey and stumbled through the hallways with sick, slurred words spilling from her lips; when her teachers told her she’d never make it in the real world, she’d laugh at them because she knew there was no fucking way she’d survive much longer anyway, no matter what anyone said.
She used to beat up all the boys in her class when she was little, but she began trading them her body for old cigarettes and half-empty bottles of alcohol; when they told her they loved her, she’d laugh at them because if she let them see the things that ran through her mind, they’d leave her faster than she left home when she was sixteen.
She lost her mind when she was fourteen and had more than enough scars to prove it; when people told her she was destroying herself, she’d laugh at them because that was the whole point.
|—||my sister left us three years ago and swore she’d die before she came back (via pessimistiic)|
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