Artemisia

I don’t think that a scale from one to ten would suffice.

The next day, I’m back at my favorite painting spot, painting my embarrassment and pain from my soul while Cassy keeps making me want to tear her out of my body with my own hands.

‘See, a little bit more effort and he could be ours,’ she purrs, continuing propagating the same message. ‘We could be Luna.’

“I don’t want to be a Luna,” I murmur, as I slap another load of paint onto the wall.

Right, I would ...