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Razorblades, blood and debated death.
Energy jolts through me, electricity feeding the anger, and transforming it into a irrevocable, passionate hatred against myself.
I stare at the bathwater, and its clarity.
My anger rises again, and the urge to make it something tangible, something real, smothers me.
All I can imagine is my emotional pain being something physical, something i can watch heal.
I take the cold, steel of the razor, and lay it gently against my outer thigh.
For a moment, the coldness of the metal makes me wonder about my sanity.
Yet, in a long sweeping, anger driven movement, I begin to make the cuts.
The pain is fast and fading in the wave of adrenaline, the blood flows in little rivulets like bloody tears.
As if it is the tears that I can't seem to shed.
I push the razor down, driving the cut deeper tearing into my tender flesh.
I'm trying to carve some of my flesh up as an offering, hoping for my salvation.
Perhaps the wounds are deep enough to scar but right now I don't care.
I doubt I am so brave as to dig too deep into my own flesh.
I run my hand across the cuts smearing the blood like a grotesque paint all over my legs.
The tears I could not shed now flow as freely as the blood does from my cuts.
The tears come so fast that my body rocks, and become sobs.
I consider driving the cold steel against the blue vein that runs down my arm, but I can't.
Not today, maybe not ever.
The razor drops from my hand onto the cold tile floor with a barely audible sound.
The tile is pristine white, like purity untainted with my blood.
The depression is still there, within me, like a cancer slowly eating away at my soul, and devouring my heart.
Looking at the mutilation of my body I feel only the slightest twinge of pain.
With equal satisfaction and delusion I realize that I have found a form of pain that I can have control over.
Staring into the bathwater I see that the water turned a faint pink with the stain of my blood.
It's then that i realize my only saving grace is that I am my own tormentor.