Dealing with the pain is
better when you have the blade.
The soft touch of steel
against flesh reminds me
of the everyday stress, how
nothing else seems to relieve the
screaming voices inside my head.
Sight of crimson makes them
happy, no longer screaming,
no longer waiting, no longer wanting
me to mutilate myself for
the moment.
They never stop until they
get what they want. They
always come back, sometimes
within seconds they're screaming
again. Suggesting me to cut deeper,
cut longer and harder. Make the river
of crimson run faster, further away
from me. To draw the darkest
crimson I can muster.
Sometimes I wonder if there's
another way to silence the voices,
make them want something else,
something that's not steel against
the flesh, not want the crimson
river that they've always
begged for.
