I still feel the pain in my chest from the memories of my past. I remember snippets of scenes with cool silver metal and red rivets of blood leading down the drain. I remember cleaning up, the consistency, the rhythm. Tissue first, stop the bleeding. Antibiotic to prevent infection. Bandages to prevent picking and scarring.
Sighing in relief because I finally obtained control over something, anything.
Not a single scar can be seen on my legs, and maybe that's a good thing. Nobody else needs to be bothered by my mistakes, I'd rather keep them in my head.
And yes, sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I crave to feel the blade between my fingers and the tears drying on my cheeks and the pretty color of my blood running out of me. But I don't. Not anymore. I'm finally clean.
