CravingsThere are some days, weeks even, where the thoughts of sliding the smooth blade of my knife into my skin flood my head. There's something so satisfying about the pain. The little teardrops of red running over the curve of my wrist. The way my teeth grit, and my eyes plead with me to look away but I never do. I always focus on the edge of the knife sinking into the flesh. Sometimes long powerful strokes, careful to not go deep. I don't want to make up stories about the scars. Sometimes only inch long gashes. I let those be as deep as I can. Those scars, no one will notice. Or ask about. I let the blood spurt from the wound. I lick it up with my tongue, the coppery taste soaked in fear and adrenaline. Release so sweet. So sharp and real. I don't do this for you to see. I do this for me. A kiss with death, a look over the edge of a suicidal leap. Temptation.
I promised I'd stop. I promised. I know there are people out there who love me. i know that now, that's why I made myself stop. But there are days when I am alone. And days when I find the knife hidden by my bed. And times when it smiles at me like an old friend.
I wish I could just skin my own arms sometimes. Not stopping there, just mutilate my cheeks and chest, and criss cross cuts down my legs, a permanent fishnet. And then cut along my neck. Watch dark blood streak down my body. Watch myself drain.
But I don't.
Ughh. But how I wish I could.