Dripping Blood

By Crystal

Stress.

Burden.

Tension.

Pressure.

There are a thousand words

For the same meaning.

Yet there is only one,

A single way,

That relieves stress.

As I grab my razor-edged blade,

I think once again,

And I count once more,

The scars that would scar,

My arm and life,

For an eternity.

And for no more than a minute,

I think and count,

But the next second,

Before I knew what was happening,

I had once again,

Slowly, but truly,

Pierced the skin.

Once again.

I look with awe and fascination,

As the crimson liquid that is pouring out.

That substance that is actual blood.

I feel it roll down the sides of my arm,

Then I hear the drips,

Falling and hitting the ground.

I hear them,

I really do.

Drip, drip, drip.

I know for a fact,

That cutting is wrong.

But does anyone know?
No.

Does anyone care?
I assume not.

Why I still remain alive,

Is a mystery,

Even to me.

I don't care about my life,

Neither does anyone else.

I have no friends,

I need no friends.

I have a family,

Yet they don't need me.

How I am still sane,

Is a mystery,

Even to me.

Not one cares for me,

And I doubt anyone will.

So why do I still live?
Why not just end the misery?

To be truthful,

I do not know.

But I suspect,

I'm just a wuss.

I look down as my sliced arm,

Once again,

The blood is rolling down the sides,

And falling in the air,

Then hitting the ground with a sound.

Drip.