Crimson, trickling down my arm in a meandering river.
Again, I press the cold clinical silver to my soft skin. It dips, then gives way, splitting with a glorious smooth motion into a long red line.
A second branch of the river flows out from the ravine of warm flesh, joining and supplementing the first. When it reaches the curve of my arm, it pauses in a painfully long moment, then slips over the edge, sliding down my skin and staining my white trousers.
It is such a perfect combination, the soft innocent pale skin, the pink flesh, the hot flow of my life's essence and the surgical coldness of the blade, that my breath catches in my throat.
Surely, this is true beauty.
Yay! The first of many, I hope...