Crimson

Standard

I test the tip of the sharpened blade on my left index finger pad.
A bud of blood blooms crimson like a rose dew-adorned in early spring.
From the dent in the base of my wrist to my inner elbow I slice,
And for a moment, one pure, peace-filled moment, I don’t feel a thing.
Then it comes, that burning sting of opening as my skin
Gapes wide, exposing me to the stifling hot air.
There’s something soothing, fascinating watching my blood trickle down my arm,
Cooling and staining as it goes, meandering my life away, unaware.
Too soon, the momentary relief is gone and my heart pounds in protest,
So, though my fingers are already slick with blood and heat,
I line up the blade once more, turning delicate attention to my other side,
And, with only the briefest of hesitance, my actions, repeat.
I wonder if I keep trying to carve you from me,
You’ll do the noble, decent thing and leave.
I doubt it though, since you’re embedded, ingrained bone deep,
And this cutting only serves as a means to relieve.
The blade slips down and rests against my trembling knee for a moment,
Until I trail it, slowly, as though caress, up along my inner thigh.
And as it buries deep through sinew and vein,
That sense of release is the truest high.
So now my heavy limbs run crimson,
And the inevitable must happen next.
Since you have chosen residence there,
The knife plunges deep in my chest.

Crimson

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