Writing My Intrusive Thoughts

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As the cold metal of the blade makes contact with the warm flesh of my forearm, a cold chill shoots up my spine. I press the blade of the small pocket knife down, gripping the handle so tightly that my pale fingers fade to white.
I glide the knife sideways, feeling the sharp sting as my skin tears, and a dark crimson of blood shines through the cut. I giggle ever so slightly as the blood begins to trickle down my forearm, pooling in the crease of my elbow.
Red. All I see is red. I gasp, unable to stop myself as I add another. And another. And another. Slice after slice, my speed becomes hasty and aggressive. My giggles turn to laughter, then my laughter to tears.
Sobbing, I press my back to the wall of the dimly lit bathroom. I slide down to the floor, my arm now covered in a thick layer of shiny blood. I look up at the ceiling and into the light and I whisper "why?"