She strokes the skin.
The stroking makes her tremble.
She is scared and excited,
not wanting to stop,
but knowing she must.
Determinedly she bites her lip hard;
tastes the salt of the blood.
In a trance she presses down
on the skin.
Fascinated, she stares as it parts,
showing a flowing red river.
She presses again, harder, encouraged.
As she raises her arm to her
mouth, seeing the clean, sharp,
bloodstained edge of the razor blade,
she wonders who else she is
hurting. She laps at burgundy liquid
crystals. The river runs, washing away
fears and thoughts of friends.
Purged of doubt, she sleeps once more.
Karina Margaretta Dibble