The thoughts are clawing at the insides of my thighs, waiting on that sweet release. My wrist tries to whisper sweet nothings, again, waiting for a release. My head, it's tangled with images that want to be real. My nose yearns for that metal smell. That smell that lingers from the sweat of my fingers to the silver blade. My ears wanting to hear the shredding of skin. And the red, the red blood that flows in my veins, from underneath my meaningless skin. I think, maybe the ****** cuts that could dance upon my skin, make the metallic smell linger in the air, having my guts spilling out, would be worth it. But I think again, and it's not.