Looking upon my crimson wrist. The view of my inner liquid. Dripping to the floor below one more slit. To finish. My mutilating display to the onlook of scars. On my wrist. As they grow in a rapid session. One more cut. Every cut runs down deep, in perfect formation.
Saying in my head ‘this is the last cut’, only too continue on to the multiples of numbers. As they add quickly. With each slight motion. I plague myself with the enchanting pain and misery of self-inflicted wounds. Mesmerized by such artwork. An artificial joy. Minutes turn to hours as I lay here dabbled in my sadistic perverse of my emotional equality. I can’t help to find myself. Hiding behind the certain shades of black. With the words I speak. Only to explain my immoral distress. Hiding. Cover my face. With my bland expression.
No exceptions for what I’ve done to myself.