Veins and arteries just two ounces of pressure away, skin oozes apart in gashes, a layer bubbly fat underneath. I find comfort in the idea of my tolerance to pain growing, styros becoming more common, layers of skin now a thing of the past.
Risky lacerations cause indentations into my wrist, purple marks gleaming up at me with pride. Skin splits and gashes, in morbid harmony.
Oh how I cling to the blade, my salinity relying. Clearing my guilt and setting a clear punishment for myself.
A ritualistic release.
