I slice the fragile skin on my wrist open
Watching the sticky, red, liquid that seeps out
Feeling it drip down my sleeve
And the agonizing pain that wraps itself around my fist.
I know the skin will pull itself together again
Leaving behind nothing but a rough, jagged scar
And i'll rip it open again and again
Until it can no longer heal.
I stand completely still
Watching, mesmerized at the way my hand spasms and clenches
The skin around the wound raw and torn
Looking at the inside of what I so often see the outside of.
Its beautiful in a morbid sort of way
And I relish the quiet of my thoughts
Thankful for the brake from the emotional torment
I watch as the blood begins to slow hardening on my skin.
Once again I pull forth the knife
Letting it hover over my wrist
As I think about what would happen if I pushed it even deeper this time
If I let it break the final layer of skin and hit the tendon.
Instead I place the knife back on its shelf
And let my fingers roam over the scars jagged path
A path that runs straight to my heart
And percis deeper than any blade ever could.
And once again I wonder about the consequences of slitting my wrists
Of cutting to the point of no return
But I know those results will be like none ive ever experienced
And im not ready to make that decision yet.