She Made Me Do It

She wasn't crying when she picked me up from the kitchen's silverware drawer.

She wasn't shaking when she held me in her fist, walking to her bathroom.

She didn't flinch when she pulled back her long sleeve on her left arm.

I felt her shudder when she brought my cool tip to her warm arm.

I felt her blood pumping through her veins - going to arteries, capillaries.

I felt her moan when she dragged the tip of me across her wrist.

I opened her up. I bled her dry.

I screamed for her to stop, of course, she wouldn't hear me.

I am not supposed to be used for this.

This was not my purpose.

Or was it?

I was made to cut; cut apples, cut chicken, cut letters. But flesh?

Human flesh that created me, I am supposed to harm?

But I guess it doesn't matter because she's making another red line on herself, without my permission, of course.

I count how many red lines I see: one, two, four, six. I kind of lost count after that. I started to get dizzy.

But what amazed me was that she didn't shed a tear.

And then she stopped.

She set me down on the bathroom counter and washed her arm, first washing water over it and then taking some rubbing alcohol and poured it over her self-inflicted wounds. I saw her grimace in pain - but only for a second.

It was like it was necessary for her to keep her composure during this session.

She went inside the cabinet behind the mirror and took out a long roll of gauze; wrapping it around her fiercly pink, almost red arm and pinning it.

And then, just then, she started to cry.

She cried while she washed her blood off of me.

She cried while she carried me from the bathrrom to the kitchen.

She cried while she walked back to her room.

And I stayed tucked safely inside the silverware drawer.

Violated, cold, and a small speck of her blood on my handle.