Plurk paste

there is a difference from when i cut with my exacto knife, and when i cut with my broken, shaver, razor blade.

the nights i feel like watching the blood pool on the old scars of my arm, and drip dead to the floor. playing with it, sliding it up and down my arm until the whole thing is covered in a layer of sticky, bright red, liquid. waiting for it to dry. to feel my skin pulled together under the layer of dead, crispy, brown blood. the insane nights. the nights i dig into myself simply because i am intrigued by my ability to ignore the pain and play with the pleasure, or maybe i'm just bored. these belong to my craft tool, my project blade, my exacto knife. i love these nights.

the nights i spend, trying to get the whole in my stomach to fill. eating plate after plate of shitty food. holding my arm still i go deep, and listen to my skin tear, the dull blade makes it bleed more. i watch, emotionless, as the blood oozes out, falling, creating bright red puddles on the clean white towel. i wipe off my arm and watch the blood bubble up before running in a stream down my arm. these nights, full of hate, loss, and body image. torment, lust, and sin, control my depressed state. returning every few weeks to remind me who's in charge. to keep me from loving myself. these nights are when i take a shower, break open my shaver, and carve "whore" into my upper thigh. watching it gush blood, and expose the layer of fat underneath the skin. these nights are the worst i've ever lived.