This blade never felt so cold. I hold it tightly, memorizing its weight and shine. I used to clean it, used to wash it before I used it. But my skin still puckers, still stings, still bleeds just as much.
So why bother? I know take a deep breath and lightly, slowly, take it across my thighs. If I do it slowly, it'll hurt more. Faster and it gets done quicker. But I need this to last, I need this to hurt, so bad, so much, yet never enough. When I need more I drag the blade across my shins, my stomach, and my arms until I'll a walking piece of art.
A bloody canvas slashes with reds and crimsons. I'm still holding my breath and the tears start rolling. The people that don't know me laugh in my mind, point and giggle.
But they'd never know I'm a cutter. I'm to plain, to average. No black clothing, no emo band bracelets. my hair is flung over my shoulders and I'm silent, silently waiting for the sting of the cuts to arrive and break me. I'll fall onto the bathroom floor and watch the blood drip, drip, drip.
I'm bleeding out the pain and I'm so sick, so godly sick of doing it to myself.
No one will ever know the pain of being me.
Only I am my worst enemy. And I will continue to bleed myself dry.