she keeps asking me if i've been hurting myself. last night she wanted to know whether i'd taken to my own arm with a match.
she stopped talking to me when she saw i was wearing a bandaid on my left arm over the weekend. i bet she thinks that i have nothing to live for, so i may as well end it now.
i hate it when she does that.
"Perhaps there can be no perfection. Only levels of imperfection. Only differences. Each time we move closer and closer, but never can be satisfied. A piece is never complete, only at some stage abandoned"
- Peter Goldsworthy
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