Kinda tired but I'm trying (mmm) Kinda done with the fighting (I) Got the heart of a lion (yeah) And pressure makes diamonds I know the things that I'm wanting (so) I'ma work till the morning (I) Got the heart of a lion (yeah) And pressure makes diamonds

Yeah, I'll just keep on swimming through the patriarchal system Kick them down with my ambition Yeah, I do it on the daily I'm just tryna make it through the bullsh*t flying at me Turn it into something catchy And then make it into money

One…

Her pinky finger was the first to give in to the overpowering want to find consolation in self-inflicted agony. This was the first time she had ever done this in a while. Innocently enough, it curled inward as her fingernail merely grazed the scarred skin of her palm, where a crescent-shaped mark half a shade darker than the rest of her skin resided. This mark was so obviously and evidently healed over and over again, so it was clear and evident that it had been healed.

Two…

After that, she folded her ring finger and took a slow, deep inhale as she prepared herself mentally and physically for what she knew was coming next. Betty sometimes had the sensation of being a reluctant passenger on this all-too-familiar voyage of self-destruction; nonetheless, she embraced it each time it occurred. The freedom from it all, the relief from the feelings that had been tearing at her and eating her from the inside out. It was the only power she ever felt was ever in her control, the one constant that kept her firmly rooted in reality, and it was the only power she ever felt was ever in her possession.

Three…

Her strongest finger, which was also her middle finger, was the one that dictated and forced the final fold of her fingers in on themselves. It was the loss of her will, the intensity of her struggle now aimed inward and against herself rather than any effort at combating the compulsive habit she'd learned at a young age and only mastered through years of repression. The loss of her will caused her to lose control of her life.

Four…

Her index finger could no longer resist the impulse as the rest of the fist was being created. The force that she used via her hand's muscles culminated in the way that the edges of her nails sliced into the preexisting forms imprinted in her palms. Whenever she felt a surge of worry rising up inside of her, she would turn to this as her rescue; it was her way of redefining what it meant to be sane for herself.

This was her safe haven, the spot where she felt the most secure since it allowed her to block out everything else that was going on around her, leaving her with nothing to concentrate on other than the suffering she was experiencing. Sometimes it was sufficient to continue the task; other times, more severe situations would demand her to draw blood until she was happy with her job and felt like she was actually able to breathe again. This would require her to draw blood until she could continue the action.

This was her transgression, the guilt of keeping her secret from the rest of the world. Betty was left with scars as her constant reminder of the pain she carried with her and the silence that was forced upon her and demanded of her to the impossible levels of perfection asked of her. Whereas her mother turned away with blind eyes from the problems kept secret within the four walls of her home toward God in her search for salvation, Betty was left with scars as her constant reminder of not only the pain she carried with her but the silence that was forced upon her and demanded of her.

That which is lovely and impeccable Betty Cooper was little more than porcelain that had been broken and shattered. The flaws were painted over with a pastel color, preventing observers from picking up on the nuances on the surface. At the same time, the artifact continued to be in a shattered state and was ignored by everyone else, while a pleasant and welcoming grin was still painted over it.