I pick up the razor in my hands, uncap it and snap off the handle. Then, I pick up the nail scissors beside me and cut the plastic away. When I am finished my hands are cut and bloody and there are shards of white plastic with spots of scarlet that cover my bed like snow. I sit in the middle of all this surveying the damage, looking down at my bloody hands. After a moment I pick down the blade (now free of it's molded plastic casing) and  carefully lay it against my arm. I let it sit there for a moment and then in a sudden violent movement I press it into my pale scarred skin and slash it deep. I repeat the action again and again...and again until the scarlet lines start to drip slowly and then begin to flow like tears that I can never seem to find. There is a drawer across from my bed and I unlock it and sweep the bloody mess into it. Upon locking it again I pick up a tissue and hold it against my wound letting the bright red stain spread across it, blossoming like a flower and then soaking through onto my hand. Removing the cloth I see a angry red cut starring back at me. A heart cut in blood.

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