The Blade

Close my eyes,

grip the blade,

slice an incision,

beads of blood,

crimson rivers,

flowing off my arm.

change my skin,

pick the scabs,

cover the scars,

wash the blade,

clean the blood.

I do this,


I'm addicted,

and every time,

crimson spills to the floor,

staining the wood.

I can't stop it,

it's not my choice,

It's a feeling,

but it's carved into me,

I can't wipe it off.

I feel it,

I see it,

I change it,

I enable it,

I fear it.