i hold the blade over my wrist.
it's not that sharp, merely a paper cutter.
but i know it'll do the work.

i graze it down, bring it up,
over and over, in seven different spots.
parallel lines seem too far.
i crosshatch.
i draw over my arm—on the inside, upfront.

blood pools on the blade,
in my lap.
and i look up in the mirror.

the smile i have is wild,
uncaring,
not listening to the pleas outside.
they fall on deaf ears as i chuckle to myself,
press down on the blade with my thumb,
let it cut both ways.

deep. deeper. a bit more.
red springs up,
one by one,
more and more,
until skin is covered in a rouge so pretty.

someone is screaming.
i'm not listening.

my vision blurs.
the smile etches into a perfect grin.

hah. told you i was no coward.
i've done this before.
i do it tonight.

the screams—hers—
the one caged within, hurting.
i'm a part of her.
she just doesn't understand.

all i gotta do is prove you wrong.
i'm no weakling.
been doing this for a while.

so why not go for the other arm?
you know—
just to prove you wrong.