The cutting.
The cutting.
The cutting.
The knife, a blade, anything sharp, pressed against the skin between my fingers. It doesnt cut.
My skin's hard and rough even though it feels silky and soft to the person touching them.
I press harder and deeper.
The cutting.
The cutting.
The cutting.
The blade, anything sharp, pressed behind my hand, in the deep corners of the lifelines that are etched in my skin. My skin's still rough there even though the sharpness creates what seems like nothing more than a scratch.
The cutting.
The cutting.
The cutting.
Anything sharp, all i want is to bleed. To see blood is the goal.
I want to bleed.
Cut.
Snip.
Carve.
Cleft.
Nip.
For every scar there is a story. The story levels and resides throughout a book in my mind.
As the blade penetrates deeper and blows a vein, I see the blood I crave.
It oozes and drips.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
and thats when I stop. I stare at the blood and wonder, is today the day?
Did I finally go farther than the time before last?
I wonder how long it takes to stop...
How long it'll take to stop the blood from going...
I don't have the scars anymore...
Even the ones that were once deep.
I've repeated these old habits and I'm looking at my mending wounds and don't know if I should stop.
I don't want to stop.
Why should I stop?
I'm not hurting anyone.
But me.
I don't need anything negative to start the cutting.
I can be smiling and I continue with it.
It's like a bad hobby that doesn't go away.
Maybe I'll continue later tonight.
Make new wounds to watch heal.
They're not deep, I promise.
But I am beyond psychotic, so don't test me.
I like them and I'll keep them and that's the way it shall be.
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