Its easy to start. Impossible to stop.
Wednesday, Apr. 16, 2003 at 3:53 p.m.
I was afraid to let the shiney cold metal slide across my fair skin. But once the invisible hand pushed down as I slide: I became addicted. The pain no longer hurts and the blood no longer bleeds. Now it is a rush. A certain rush that momentarily takes my thoughts away. And brings on a calmness. In the blood flow is my heartache. Let it go. Let it go.
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And I wish I could smear this blood that comes from the cuts you caused all over your face. I wish you can taste it. It will taste of my pain, of my tears. Of my depression. The razor blade is you. You are the source of my blood. The blade is the source of these deep wounds. This red blood, these deep scars. These scars are tattoos with better stories.
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