Thicker Than Paper

Blood- Warning

Dark and metallic. Shiney and liquid dries to matte and crusted.  Mesmerizing, entrancing, captivating. A little runs down my wrist and splats onto the little paper crane. Forever marking it with crimson. Forever imprinted with my ruins. I lick off the blood from my wrist while watching the crane float away. I leave before I leave a trail of red right back to my home. 

~~~

Homework. I need to focus on my homework. But I can't. My mind drifts off, and I just sit there staring at the piece of paper. I shake my head, squint my eyes and re-read the question again. For the fourth time. I've already tried music, to help me focus, and when that didn't work I pulled up Netflix for some background noise. Noise, I need noise. But it didn't work. My mind would have rather focused, even a tiny bit, on whatever dumb documentary I pulled up then a piece of paper that could affect my grades, which could affect my GPA, which could affect my college, which could affect my job, which could affect my happiness and success in life. and money. So I turned it off. 

I rub hands together underneath my desk like I'm rubbing in lotion. A sick kind of lotion that soaks through my skin and lathers on my heart and brain, making them so slippery they slip out of place, somewhere that I can't find them. Homework, I need to focus on homework. I decide to move on from the question and do the one underneath. What are an example of site and an example of relative location? I rub my eyes and sigh. Shaking my head, I look around my desk trying to find things to entertain me. I know I need to get this worksheet done, but at the rate, it's going it's better I give up now rather than waste more time.

Scissors. My eyes fall on the scissors. Sharp. Satisfying. I lick my lips and pick them up. I wonder how sharp they really are. I open them and run my thumb across one of the blades. Upon inspection, my thumb seems unharmed. I try again. Harder. This time, when I pull the blade away I feel a tiny little sting. But it doesn't bleed. I want it to bleed. I place it on my wrist, the blade feels cool. I press, and slice. The tingle, the burn, the sting. I do it again, harder. Faster. Over and over in the same spot until the blade has a thin coat of blood. 

Then it hits me; It's so obvious. I need to do this somewhere no one will see. Not my wrists, or upper body because when I change out for practice the boys will see it. Hips, or inside of the thigh. My feet or behind the ear. I need something sharper, like an x-acto knife. I need to clean the blood off the scissors, tin foil sharpens scissors, doesn't it? I need to feel it again. I need to see the little blood dots forming where the skin has been cut deep enough. 

I pull the waist of paints down, then the band of my underwear. It's not easy, with the scissors not opening up very far. It's little, half the size of the one on my wrist. But it feels just as good. I can already tell I'm addicted. I wan this feeling, this pain again. Just like my knuckles. I lean my head back and sigh. I need to stop. At least for tonight. I pull my pants all the way up. I put my scissors in one of the drawers. At least for tonight.

~~~

I dream about the boy from the hallway. His blue eyes catching mine. The shimmer. His fair skin, shaggy blonde hair. I run my fingers through his hair. When I pull a little, he moans. The sound excites me. I cup a hand behind his neck, my fingers still in his hair. He closes his eye's. I take it as an invite. 

He's shorter than me, not by much, just enough so when I kiss him, I have to lean down. God, his lips feel good. So soft. I bit the bottom just a bit. Teasing. His head falls back a little, another moan escapes him. I kiss down his neck. Down his soft collarbone. I didn't notice his shirt was off till now. So is mine. I keep trailing the kiss down his chest, making my way to one of his nipples. So soft and pink. Yet hard. I lick around it. I feel his boner against my stomach. I keep kissing him. I tug on his nipple a little with my teeth and he pulls my hair. I shiver. 

He pulls my head up with his hands, reconnecting our lips. I slip my tongue in. We fight for dominance. He flips me over, so he's on top. Still kissing me, his hands trail down my chest. So soft, his touch. His hand slides under the band of my boxers. Neither of us has pants, now only underwear. He touches me and my back arches. He stops kissing me, instead, sliding down my body. He sits on my knees and pulls my underwear down. I know what he's going to do. I know how good it's going to feel. 

He traces the cuts on my hips with his fingertips, licking the tip. I throw my head back and bite my lip till I taste red. 

I haven't had a wet dream in a long time. I feel hot and stick as I pull back the covers. Not in a long time, and a longer time since it been a boy. I want to kiss him. The boy. But in real life. Would he want to kiss me too? Would he want to kiss another boy? Probably not. I sigh, and head to the shower to wash away the crusted blood and hopes of kissing boys.

~~~

"Homework?" Mrs. Pattson doesn't ask me specifically, but her eyes are definitely asking me. I look down, embarrassed. 

I like having everything in on time. I like straight A's, or-at least- a few high B's. Anything low enough to become a C if I do badly on an assignment makes me too nervous. Juinor year is always the most important. Everyone knows that. Junior year is crucial. I can't do bad. I can't, or I won't get into college. I have to get into a good college. I need to get out. And I need a good job so I can do good in life. 

"Phoenix, do you have homework?" I wish I could scream at her to shut up. I wish I could throw my pencil and scream. I wish I could tell her it's not my fault. That it's probably my medication making me unfocused. I wish I could tell her I everything.

"No," So I lie, "I had to go to my grandmothers and help her. I didn't get to the homework when I came back, it was already in the morning. Sorry." It just came out of my mouth before I could think. God, that was such a bad lie. Mrs. Pattson's lips form a thin, tight line as she nods her head. Disappointed. 

I stare at the little red cut on my wrist. I don't really feel it anymore. But I want to. And now that it's clean, it's not very noticeable. Yet, I can't seem to keep eyes off it. I want to feel it again. I want more scars. Tonight, right before bed, I'm going to do it again. But I need a knife. I need something to give a good cut. I want to bleed. I want to scar. I want to feel pain again. I want to feel. I'm going to do it again. I know it's bad. But I want to do it again.