Isabel’s favourite colour was red. But she told everyone it was black. She liked to seem illusive, but to blend within the realms of what it meant to be exclusive.
Isabel dreamed in glitter. She dreamed of glistening fairytale beginnings that would never end. In her dreams her hands clutched diamonds sparkling from afar, seeping through her fingers like little grains of sand.
She saw comfort in anger, unsure of how to handle the pain. She became fascinated by drops of blood cut deep by knives pleading to be sharpened.
She tooks walks in the park, alone as per usual. Her mind played tricks on her and the voices got closer and closer. She found herself unsure and terrified of what had become of her as she covered below the only deemed safe haven, the old oak tree, drenched in her own sweat.
Her heart cried out in pain and she could no longer see a way out. Dark places became beautiful, intricate wonders blurred out into one sip.
Drip by drip the pain could temporarily be forgotten and eradicated. But it wouldn’t last. And it would leave her empty longing for her next shot.