The quick intake of oxygen as the metal pierces my skin.
I glide it along again and again until the only vision in my head is of blood.
The bittersweet pleasure fills my body,
and the gashes throb in mockery as they laugh at my surrender.
Yet I go back for more.
I yearn for more, it is all that goes through my head; when the next line will be made.
And it’s an art where my body in the canvas in which my voice is heard.
It’s a glorious scream of the inner battle taking place in my mind.
It’s not a suicidal attempt nor a cry for attention.
No, it’s my drug. My addiction. My lifeline.
I crave the pain and can only beg for more.
And, once that line is made, my body quivers with the familiar calming sensation.
I look at my arm as the blood begins to bead and then flow down my arm.
The colour of blood really is beautiful.
I drive the scissors down a second time.
And then a third.
And a fourth.
And a fifth time until my vision is swimming in red.
The entire process is relaxing.
The release of all the pent up emotions, the physical cry, even the sound of my tearing skin is calming.
Now there’s a beautifully array of lines tossed around my arm and my leg and my stomach.
And no matter how many times I’m told to stop, I know I can’t.
All in all, I’m not entirely sure that I want to stop anymore.
My body is such a petty price to pay for emotional stability that the thought of stopping is simply comical.