My hands are shaking.
In my left hand I hold a cigarette, and in my right I hold
a razor.
I lower the razor to the flesh of my leg with my trembling
hand as I inhale a puff of smoke to calm my nerves.
Blood flows down my leg hitting the white tiled floor
below.
My red blood against the white of the tiles would seem
almost surreal to any other person, but to me it brings a
sense of comfort.
Beauty in my eyes.
No one understands the mind of a cutter unless they
themselves are a cutter.
It brings a sense of relief to ones soul and to their
mind.
No it doesn’t last, but we do it again.
It’s a deadly addiction if taken too far.
For the time being it is my only escape from a world where
no one cares.
An attachment, an addiction.
I’ve grown to love it, and will continue to love it until
I’m handed another option worth grasping.