My Blood Stained Knife

I smiled as the blood dripped over the end of the knife. Fine lines were draw all over my skin, red marks that burned under the thin covering of skin. My blood was like liquid fire, burning me from the inside out, but as it trailed over my soft flesh... I could smile again.

Scars litter my body, long jagged ones from when I was angry with myself. Short but deep one from when I was sad and needed to the relief of knowing, it could all be over, just another cut a little deeper this time and I could end it. Little ones, from when I stabbed the knife deep, too deep vertically, those bled wonderfully, the red running down my thigh and onto the shower floor before becoming diluted in the water and spilling away through the drain. Then there there were the thin almost scratch like marks from where I just wanted to sting, to have a constant reminder of relief.

Sometimes I would cut too deep and there would be too much blood. I would get heavy and dizzy, but that's when I scratched the wound keeping it bleeding and I was hanging over the edge just waiting for myself to fall into the never ending darkness. Sometimes I wouldn't cut deep enough and there wouldn't be enough blood, the relief wouldn't come, that's when I cut repeatedly, thin lines slicing across veins. Never where they could be seen though, I wouldn't give them the pleasure of knowing that I am broken. I wouldn't give him the pleasure of knowing he started it. I wouldn't tell her that I needed to be saved.

The knife was my constant companion through the good times and the bad, always covered in my blood. Eventually it stained the blade red. I'm pale, you can see everything through my skin, I gain a slight tan during summer, just enough to hide the scars. Theres one running across my stomach, long and jagged, I cut too deep that time, sliced too much. It hurt to walk for so long and it kept reopening but not its just a reminder. A reminder of my pain. A reminder that no one can see it, a reminder that my blood tastes just so good on the end of my tongue, metallic and sweet. I could drink it if I were able too.

I want to cry, but I can't. The only time tears fall from my eyes is when they're running red.

A/N: Yes this is from me before anyone asks. Sara Sidle is just the character that I felt identified with this kind of thinking, and situation. Thank you for reading.