Skin And Bone

Deeper

That night I lay in bed. I toss and turn, I think and worry of the worst. I squeeze my eyes closed, but they reopen. I bite the black nail polish off my thumb, and stare at the green numbers on my clock. I groan and sit up, I stand up and quietly walk into the bathroom, once again I stare in the mirror. I give a sour look, and open up the cupboard. I pull out a first aid kit from a hole I'd made in the wall. I snapped open the lid and was taken aback by the shiny, silver blades. I thought carefully before reaching for the sharpest one. I crept down the hall and crawled back into bed. Only this time I didn't close my eyes. Instead, I turned on my lamp and placed the cool metal against my pale skin. I pushed down on the blade and within seconds blood dripped down my arm. Bright.

Bright red and beautiful. Was it weird that I thought blood was a beautiful thing?

I felt tears drop onto my cuts, and it stung.

But I didn't care, because it was a good feeling.

I put more pressure onto the blade, the more I cried the deeper they got.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

But what hurt me the most was the fact I didn't even know why I was doing it.