Quit Trying to Get in the Poor Boy's Pants

She had strewn her backpack to the side before she sat down outside the coffee shop. Her black oversized hoodie drowned her petite frame. The hood was pulled up over her auburn hair. As she sat on the concrete of the flower bed, her hair laid in her lap in a pool of red, brown, and all sorts of light refracting colors. Her sharp cheekbones and dark, heavy makeup contrasted her pale skin. On her face were angry, raised and inflamed pink scars that raked down from above her left eye, diagonally down to above her heart. Right where her heart was, were cross-hatched slashes that had healed over and become even more angry from the ones on her face; it was as if someone had tried to rip out her heart.

And that person was me.