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

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

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

“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.”