Red. Deep, dark, red. Tis almost a smooth black. The wet feeling on my wrist is comforting, for it has been gone for so long. It gives me a light high, feeling all of this blood flow from my wrist; I feel as though I’m emotionless. All of the pain and its glorious ache numb all of the sorrow inside of me, and it bleeds out of me. As I sit in the bathroom alone consumed in all of this sweet darkness, I feel as though I’m being cleansed of all my hate and misery.

While I continue to slice, I look down at the beautiful array of small round black clots on my wrist, and I’m amused by how little it hurts to see what I’m doing to myself; I honestly don’t give a fuck how deep or shallow the cut is, as long as it bleeds. All of the shit in my life begins to fade as more horrible disease pours from the slots my scissors leave in my delicate skin. Perhaps this is all I need to calm myself when the world fucks with my head and leaves my mind scarred and uglier than before; this is all I need to drain the pain.