She writes a heart on her hand. Over and over she traces the image until the pen runs out of ink and she’s forced to start over in a different color. Soon there is no resemblance of her heart. Soon it’s just as if the ink erupted into her skin spewing grotesque blotches of tar. A mangled and chaotic mess to anyone else who may take the time to glance over. But to her, it’s in there. Buried. And intact. And it’s beautiful, despite the chaos overlapping.