I love picking up the razor and bringing the cold metal to my arm. I slide it across as the blade slits into my body, slicing through my skin. I sigh with relief when I see the blood emerge to the surface. Over and over I slash until my entire arm is covered in the red liquid. It drips onto the sink and floor, bloody tears. This is when the pain starts. I hold my arms, get the disinfectant, and begin spraying and dabbing at my wounds, watching the tissure turn red as I wince in pain. I get rid of the evidence quickly, gently and painfully pull down my sleeve, and walk out of the bathroom having to pretend as if nothing ever happened.

The next day, my only reason for getting out of bed is to go slash up my legs.

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updated Mar 16 '09 by Emma-Rose