Spiking into me like a soulless torrent,
Bringing a slight vignette to my vision.
I drag it to the side, feeling the skin part,
Feeling the cold metal searing my hot flesh.
Blood bubbles up,
but it’s not good enough.

Again.

I drag it through quicker, harder, deeper.
I want more pain.
I want less blood.
It still doesn’t pass the bar.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And on it goes...

My arm drips the blood I never could have cherished.
My patience with this process is almost out,
I feel a desperate hatred, as my desolate mind shuts down.

My arm becomes increasingly ravaged
by each sweet, disappointing stroke.
My mind runs out of patience with all my failures.

“**** it. I’m done.”

I raise my hand, the one holding my ever so cherished blade
And sweep the slice of a hopeless child;
a child who sees nothing left of themself but the pain they give.

The flaming arm releases some of its ruby blood,
Flinging it towards the walls and furniture,
Unable to hold onto it through the violent strike.

A vertical line of deep red divides its lighter counterpart,
A vertical line, far too shallow to stop my worthless heart.
“There’s always next time...” I think resignedly,
But I know that next time will fail as well.
I forgo the bandages once more,
And go back to what I was doing, ten minutes before.

Through all the disappointment I saw this as my savior.
But I know, that this was never any form of acceptable behavior.