She’s too obsessed with pain. To her, it is much more than a cherry lipped kiss; she carries it around like a leather bag, praying it will bruise her shoulder but never rip.
She loves drowning in suffering, it brings her soul some sort of bliss- the bliss of not being there, the bliss of wishful thinking.
She loves how it matches her glass of wine, and how it dresses her face in burning tears she doesn’t understand.
She loves feeling without a chance of knowing; she loves diving on blissful agony while skipping obvious happiness.