canvas

Some wonder why her sigil is a hooked ring. Why she drags it over the pale folds of her skin, bringing blood, but no scars.

The girl on the other side of her mirror does not wonder. Her arms and thighs are crossed with clean pink lines. She has tattooed the passage of a hundred silent battles into her skin, and she wears the marks with brittle pride.

They watch each other until Despair turns away, tears forming, clogged and bitter, at the back of her throat.

The girl admires the beauty of her flesh, and smiles triumphantly.