Stories In Scars
I Wrote A Poem On My Wrists
A/N: Once again, if you self-injure, please take caution while reading this chapter.
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I’m in a white room. With razors. Many beautiful, shiny, sharp razors. Over one hundred razors. I want them. I need them. I need them to pierce my flesh, let out crimson fluid. I pick up one of them, the shiniest and sharpest of all. Running it the length of my theigh, beautiful blood comes pouring out.
More.
More.
More.
Arms. Legs. Stomach. Everywhere.
The hospital-like room’s floor is now covered in puddles of red fluid. Blood. My blood. Oh, so beautiful.
Take my arms, smear them on the walls. The walls are my canvas; my wrists are my brush.
Painting the most beautiful picture in the world.
More.
More.
More.
More slicing. More cuts.
On my feet. My shoulders, my stomach, my ribs, everywhere.
In the mirror, I see myself, completely nude, covered in my blood. What a beautiful sight.
I collapse to the floor, and everything goes black.
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I’m in a white room. With razors. Many beautiful, shiny, sharp razors. Over one hundred razors. I want them. I need them. I need them to pierce my flesh, let out crimson fluid. I pick up one of them, the shiniest and sharpest of all. Running it the length of my theigh, beautiful blood comes pouring out.
More.
More.
More.
Arms. Legs. Stomach. Everywhere.
The hospital-like room’s floor is now covered in puddles of red fluid. Blood. My blood. Oh, so beautiful.
Take my arms, smear them on the walls. The walls are my canvas; my wrists are my brush.
Painting the most beautiful picture in the world.
More.
More.
More.
More slicing. More cuts.
On my feet. My shoulders, my stomach, my ribs, everywhere.
In the mirror, I see myself, completely nude, covered in my blood. What a beautiful sight.
I collapse to the floor, and everything goes black.