ibleedfat

My name is Ingrid, my mother's old fashioned although she was only twenty-three when she had me. I'm fifteen, and I live in England. I paint my nails bright pink and never wear anything other than black. I have long black hair, that I either let out in waves or straighten until it resembles the side of a ruler. My clothes are pretty much a collection of torn fabric and pins.
My lips are glossed a bright red, and I don't have many friends.
Out of the ones I do (there are two) they are not terribly close, and the boy I'm in love with breaks my heart a new way everyday. His name is Michael, but I call him Mikey and he's never showed signs of minding. He's fourteen. He's got shoulder-length messy brown hair, a crooked smile, and he's skinny beautiful. I smile at him everyday, but he pretends not to know.
I sound desperate and pathetic.
But he used to tell me loved me too, and every now and then he'll tell me to sit next to him and he kisses my forehead. These days have become less frequent as the scars on my arms increase. Increase. Increase.
My house is small and my bed takes up most of my room, a double with such thick sheets I feel like I can drown in them sometimes, and I really want to. Its just me and my mum because my parents got divorced three years ago, and sometimes it's not even that because she has work and a fuller social calender then her teenage daughter. I wish at night I could die as I'm tracing my stomach with the tips of my fingers. There really isn't much to me.