the steam billows from the shower
the water, set to the highest degree, feels like a thousand flames hitting my skin
a feeling my skin has desensitised itself to, one of the many forms of subtle harm it’s gotten used too
the self mutilation , however, that still stings under the flames, the sting feels the same as when the blade slices against the already scarred skin
god why do I do this to myself
sitting under flames pouring from a stainless steel shower head with fresh red lines that signal death running parallel next to blue veins that pump the blood that keeps me alive
where is the compromise? where did the beautiful colour purple go? I miss purple.

but here i am, one again
wiping away tears masked by the water cascading over my body
wondering if i’m even alive whilst pressing down on burning red lines
the bad habit i no longer bother to hide
the cycle continues, each time promising to be the last.