I bleed like any other human
It's still a novelty to me.
When a knife kisses my wrists
And cries red streams.

I'm intrigued by the sight of it
Bright, crimson lines.
That tingle ice up my arms
And down through my spine.

It looks like freedom.
Like drops of life on the bathroom floor.
It feels like liberation.
When I'm done the blade cries, "More."

It smells like failure.
Like the copper tang of lies.
It smells like promises.
Smells like the words, "I'll try."

It sounds like a hospital.
The sound of my mind eating itself.
It sounds like a diagnosis.
Like the crackle of a bottle of pills.

The skin on my inner left forearm
Is puckered, aching, and irritated.
There are fifty-two raised lines there
That I've carefully counted.

There are thirty paper towels in the bin
That are stained red and pink.
The knife in the cabinet and the counter
Have been freshly scrubbed clean.

I am not unhappy.
I have no reason to do this.
I have no excuses to give.
I just want to see red.