Falling for you

44

Deeper.

My cuts got slowly deeper.

They started off as mere scratches. Red, and menacing, but no deeper than one or two millimeters.

Then I discovered better, sharper tools, that sliced my skin easily.

They made blood pool quicker, which, to someone else, might have been enough.

But not me.

I wanted the pain.

With these new blades, I could press harder, go deeper.

The deeper I went, the more it hurt.

I went slowly, deserving the pain that came with it.

Slower.

I wouldn't stop until my arm ran out of space, filled with tightly packed lines.

Then I moved onto my thighs.

They became littered with scars as well.

They were fat and I could fit so many on them.

But I ran out of space again, and moved onto my stomach.
My hips.
My shoulders.
My ankles.

I did more and more, as each time I regretted not going deeper.
And the more it stung after.
The longer it would sting.

I watched as the blood dried and the air stung the wounds, before letting the shower throw harsh beads of steaming water upon the fresh cuts, silent tears escaping from my eyes in pain.

But I deserved it.
It was my fault.