Nothing really changes.
She sits next to three empty glasses and waits for a sign from something, or someone. What kind of sign, she doesn't know. She's stuck, and she's waiting for change.
Nothing ever changes.
She can't stop thinking about ripping out her hair. She resents her hair for taking away all the attention from her. She's never told what a great person she is, but she's heard hundreds of compliments on her hair.
No one will let her change it.
She can't stop thinking about her scars. These horrible little reminders of destructive moments and long nights.
They'll never go away.
There are large weights hanging from the skin around her wrists. Not literally, but she feels like there is. No one respects why she asks them to put the scissors down. No one really knows why, so it's not her fault.
That's just how it will always be.
That is, until she stops waiting, and makes her own changes, and there's no more wrists for weights to hang from, or hair to be pulled out.
But we don't talk about this.