A Thousand Words.

RATED R, sexual content!!! you were warned! 1,2...46,... 67,68... Trust me, I could count them forever. Each lump, swelled, slightly pinker line up my wrists, leg, side. Each one of them holds a memory. You could point to anyone and ill write you a 500 paged essay about why I decided to hold the blade in my hand and slide it smoothly across my skin. Like this one- when my sister died. Oh! And don't forget this one!- when I tried to kill myself. The feeling of the slight pain, and the tickling sensation is all the relief I need. It's my drug. I'm addicted. Some people shoot liquids into their blood too see things that make them think they are happy. What I do, is I break my skin in one solid line, to let my anger out, and to actually be happy. I was always called artistic when I was young. I loved color, design, the feeling of a steady hand gliding across paper, or with a paintbrush in my hand, painting a sturdy line to make something important. I also make special art. The canvas is my skin, the crayon, my blade. It's simple actually. The moment was too much. Yeah, I told Danika that I wouldn't do it anymore, but I couldn't help it! My blood BOILED! I ran up too my room, tossed my book bag filled with two binders of empty paper as of the start if my 11th year in high school. Straight to my dresser, I gripped the handles and pulled out the drawer. My hands sifted through my panties, thongs and size C bras until something stung my finger. I froze. Then slowly pulled my hand out. A ball of crimson bubbled at the tip of my finger. I watched it until it burst and ran down my hand. I pinched my thumb and my index finger together and felt the warm liquid slide beneath my touch. I grabbed the blade that stuck my finger and ran to my privet bathroom, sat at the edge of the tub, turned on the water too hot, and let my mind wonder as I watched the clear liquid tint pink.