(This made basically no sense… but the end line is basically saying 'Is it the cutting that's ruining me, or me that ruins the blood?' Also, I'm not sure if this really belongs in this category, but it seemed like the best fit. Just to clarify, this isn't about me, it's about a character for a story I was thinking up.)

The happy times are wonderful.
But something brings me down every time.
Out of the sky, and down to the ground.
Sometimes though, I fall below the ground.
I land in a pit of blades.
They attack my frail wrist, tearing at the skin.
Tiny lines of blood sprout up, threatening to spill over onto the white tiles.
It should probably hurt, but it doesn't.
It just stings a little, as the skin rips apart.
My blood is so bright.
It doesn't match the porcelain skin, too delicate to touch – now marred with pink scars.
Instead, it's rough, like the thorns all over a rose.
I wonder though, am I the rose, or the thorn?