As the blood seeped from the wound in my skin, I wondered why people called it 'self-loathing' and 'self-injury.' When the knife was absent from my life, I hated myself, but when the sharp, silver blade was digging in my skin, it felt as if nothing was ever going to be bad again. The dark grey film-noir of everyday life had been flooded with bright crimson, like red rays of sunlight, beating down on a world where blue-red rivers overflowed their flesh-coloured riverbanks. Everything was good, it wasn't masochism, it was just pure, unadulterated happiness in pain.

The End

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