by Ana Luisa Jayme
Tiles cold against my knees, I knelt on the bathroom floor. In my hand was a curling iron. Unassuming. I was 14 years old. I could have just been doing my hair. It could have been my first high school dance. A choir concert?
On any other night, a curling iron would have made me feel beautiful.
Tonight, I was not beautiful. On my wrist a small oval of wintery, ivory skin was now tainted and raw. My arm tingled but I did not feel the pain until the tears stopped falling and I stared at myself in the mirror.
I was breathless. I wanted to die.
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