Cutting

Cutting

It starts as a knife. The blade so sharp that, when it cuts you, it doesn’t hurt until you see the blood; and you cut again and again, just to watch the ruby liquid bubble from your skin. It covers you in scars. It covers you in hollows. It marks you with its stare, and picks apart your soul. It sniper-hunts you, following you, stalking you. It carves words into your stomach. Words like curses, thrown fast-pitch at its rolling laughter. It is love. It is leaving love behind to find yourself. It is staying with love and losing yourself. There is no medium. It is love abused, turned into a black and blue stain on your chest. It is one who has to write. It is the prequel to death, a novel written too soon. The pages cut the victim, ribbon her with the sharp edges. It fascinates, obsesses, presents the thought of ‘just one more time.’ Where’s the knife? Maybe it won’t hurt so much, this time.