I love my beta, rippingbutterflywings. I love my Parabatai, DeathCabForMari. I love my ninja compatriot, GreyGirl2358. I love my friend, Spikeyhairgood. I love my coffee obsessed lady, SweetSassyPants. I just really love my girls. Thought I'd let everyone know.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments.

You are a handful of "sorry," Clary.

You are trying to be better about being afraid, but your own words ring in your ears as you drag the blade across your skin.

"I'm sorry that I had to hurt you," you told him. "But this is what I need. I am so happy."

You are a liar, Clary.

You are a blatant liar with a hardened heart. Tell me how it is that you can feel so little, while still feeling so much. You don't even cry when you cut anymore. You sit with your back against the door, letting the knife bite into your skin. Sometimes you smile when you see the blood, but mostly you just stay expressionless.

"You assumed you were my world," you said. "But here I stand, stronger than ever before."

You weren't born to be a skeleton, Clary.

You weren't born to give all you had to those who are not worthy of you. Keep your skin, flesh, and everything else that belongs to you. Keep it. You were not born to die from an illness that thrust itself upon you. You were not born to rot away in your bedroom, alternating between feeling nothing at all and feeling everything at once.

"So many of my truths are gritty and twisted," you whispered. "I find myself sugar-coating them when I have to tell them to others."

You are not going to crumble, Clary.

You are tired of writing about him. You thought he was the next chapter, but it's time to accept the fact that the only character that will always appear is you. He never asked you about your writing.

"I'm tired of you needing us to be friends," you cried. "You have to know that it's over."

You are not done, Clary.

There are cracks in every mirror in which you once thought you would find answers. A thin piece of glass does not have to hold all the safety of weightlessness. You are not defined by your reflection. You are defined by the way you hold a pen, and the way you put others before yourself. You are defined by the look you send over your shoulder, and all of your favorite songs. You are defined by the fact that we both gave up softness a long time ago. You are not done. Don't question your own methods. Stop finding your worth in the way you deconstruct yourself.

"Something better will come along," you assured yourself. "Life will be a lot more compassing than this."

You are not written in stone, Clary.

If you are lucky enough to play a character in someone's story, I pray that you will help them grow, rather than cause them to wither. I hope that one day they will think back on you with a smile. You may only be a character, but I hope you'll try your best to be a character worth reading.

All my love,

Isabelle.

-IWriteNaked