She Cannot Feel What is to be Offered. Help Her.

So she remains in her hypersensitive state with her head cradled in her hands. A mirror drawn blank in her mind, picturing what it would be like to be perfect, to have what she fears the most. Aging beauty etched onto her wrists in a crisscrossed religion. A sanctuary bloodied and bruised with love and devotion behind hollow eyes.
Memories of pain keep her locked up and out of touch from reality. A handle of a blade slips from her grip, keeping her captive in the realm of solitude.
She craves what she cannot have and falls back onto her knees in a fit of hysterics. Opening up to the unknown only to be rejected and broken. The tears frown passed her cheeks and splatter onto the cold floor below. A love that will never be, she understands and chokes back a sob.
Hiding away behind the friendly hellos and conversations, her hands shake with each word spoken. The want and need had grown into a painful storm housed deep within her gut. Nausea keeps her head above the sink, barely managing to withstand the strength it takes to complete a simple task.
So she waits and glares passed the clock for her time to come. It has come.
1