It's only been a week since the last time, a short period of time between, compared to the other times. But everything you thought about when doing it last time has become reality this time. And you said you wouldn't do it again, but you get a text out of nowhere, your friend, and she did it.

And if she did it, why can't you? Shouldn't you be allowed to, tambien?

Fifth Cut

It's brand-new scissors that have never been used.

Their first slice ever will taste blood.

But you don't care, you're upset.

You kind of have the right to be.

Two slashes on the left wrist,

three on the right, perfect spaced,

like if Wolverine had attacked you.

Another on the left, because what you have isn't enough.

Blood starts seeping through,

dripping.

Oh, it's gorgeous against your tan skin.

There's nothing close enough to staunch the bleeding in time

before it hits the floor.

Mistake number 1, but you don't really care.

You lift your wrist up and lick the blood clean.

It doesn't have much of a taste.

But it still doesn't hurt enough, like you want it to.

So you slice three more times,

against your hip, this time

because Mistake Number 2 of course,

was making wounds so obvious.

And you'll regret it later.

You regret it now.

And that's why you make the promise to stay "clean"

so to speak

for two weeks, at least.

Maybe the thing that haunts you will be over by then.