It flows so slowly out and across my skin,
This crimson source of human life;
Filled as it is with all of the
Hot, Pulsing Pain a body can endure.
I watch as it winds its way down my flesh,
And falls fruitlessly onto the floor.
Such a little thing really,
To receive the reaction it does from anyone else around.
Sometimes it is just too much,
The Agony, The Shame, The Loneliness,
To contain within my skin any longer.
So I release it back into the waters of the world.
Sometimes I go months without doing this.
Almost a year this time.
And every time I swear it will be my last.
The litany of subtle scars laughs at my promised self control.
Private. So very Private.
Not something that one can readily do with an audience.
Somehow that would ruin it. Change it.
Cheapen it in some way.
So I once again sit alone on the cold porcelain,
Razor’s edge at hand,
And release my suffering and anguish
Drop by burning, scarlet drop….