Now

I want to cut. I want to hear the musical sigh of skin parting. I want to see the blood flow gently down my forearm, and fall upon my knee. I want to not feel the pain that haunts me every day. I want to be mystified by the liquid form of life itself exiting my hurting body.

Then, a few days from now, I want to peel off the scab, and watch the perfect droplets of blood well up over the skin, I might even taste one.

Then, a few weeks from now, I'll see the scar among the others and be fascinated by its' ugliness. To make people see how unnattractive I truly am. I want to wear a tank top, to make very sure that they see. That they stare. That their mouths drop open. Or that they make an assumption so their world can remain the perfect paradise against the bubble that shields them from all the evil that exists in this ****ed up world that we live in. And I will revel in their ignorance.

And to thee, sweet blood, my friend, my fascination, you shall be payment to my demons, and shall be happy for a little while.