The Feeling of Being Alive

I look at my drawer.
How I hate this.
Haven't done this in a while
I open it slowly
Finding that razor blade,
That gave me my pleasure,
And pain.
That blood stained blade.
I think about all the times,
That blade has touched my skin.
Where my scars lay hidden
Behind my eyes and behind my heart.
I set it down shakily.
What am I doing?
Why am I doing this?
People say it is for attention
But it's not.
I hide everything,
Why would I want peoples attention.
I hate people like that.
They talk about cutters.
How they just want attention
And how we don't do it.
The scars prove everything.
But the scars,
I could care less about.
The feeling of being alive is the only thing I care about.
I slide the four bladed razor across my wrist.
The feeling runs through me as the blood curls like snakes around my wrist.
All coming together.
A drop of the red liquid hits the white floor.
I don't care.
The razor I had set back in my drawer,
Bloody once again.
The wounds will heal.
They will stop bleeding.
Then the hurt will come back.
It happens all over again.
After so long you think you would get addicted,
You don't.
It's just the feeling that you want.
Nothing else.
The feeling of being alive is all I ask.