It is just after midnight, and I want to cut.
The rest of the local world is sleeping safely in their beds, dreaming of whatever it is that people dream of. But it's only the beginning of the night for me, hardly late at all.
I want to see the metal race across soft, tender skin. To rip open all that is closed and expose the dirt underneath. To see blood grow out of the reddened flesh and then bubble over, dripping into a puddle on the floor. To go deeper, farther, than ever before. To feel what it's like to have your body leak and drain like an abandoned water balloon.
I feel sick. I'm shaking so badly I can barely type. Why? Why do I feel like this? "You know why, my lovely. You know." I just want it to stop! "Okay then."
I want to so badly. My skin is calling to me, literally aching for that tiny touch of death. I want to see it all turn crimson. To turn tan to red, green sheets to that telltale reddish brown. I want to paint with warm blood. This is my masterpiece - my blade; my paintbrush. I want to see it all. To shred my arms, so much neater and scar less than my legs, into nothing but blood and insides.
I can't stop trembling. It's right there. Right within my grasp. It's so easy, so simple. So right.
Comfort in pain. Solace in blood.
It would be so easy.
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