I scratch at my skin,
It screams,
For more,
More!
It begs to bleed,
The blade is resting,
The corner pressing gently,
Not quite breaking through.

And then the drops fall,
Glistening on my bare arm,
Gently beading and running,
Tracing my veins,
With a shimmering trail to my wrist,
Where my frail bones divert their path,
To fall again,
And soak into the floor.

But mercifully,
The stain on the carpet is not red,
Tears not blood where shed.