Beauty is the peach of my skin.
The pale underside of my arm fading into brown.
The fair fur of my hairs streamlined down.
Beauty is the blue-green of my veins underneath.
The faint beat of my heart through the white-pink.
Throb, beat, push my blood through my arteries,
Through the highways of myself.

Beauty is the silver of the needle.
The shine of light fading to dark steel.
The feel of the metal on me as my fingers touch.
Beauty is the taper of the end.
The centimeter thick rod that is sharpened.
The point, the point that is poised,
The point that is poised over me.

Beauty is the way the needle pulls through me.
Touching and seamlessly digging into me.
Tracing the lines of my veins blue-green under my skin.
Beauty is the way my skin peels as the metal touches.
Eraser shreds pulling away the outer layers.
The shreds of me clinging to the edge of the wound,
Erasing me, erasing me away into nothing.

Beauty is the welt that rises over my veins.
The tear on top of the roads of my heart.
The hurt that tingles in me as I touch.
Heat and cold and everything on the tracing lines.
Beauty is the loneliness I feel today.
The ache in my throat and my center as I touch the needle.
The tearing of holes in me with this spear of metal.
The hurt I inflict upon myself.