There’s something magical about the way your arms move on their own:
Stretching out across the chasm of the pure white tub,
Tracing their fingertips across the speed bump surface of the light pink razor,
Grasping,
Lifting,
Pulling their best friend into the warm embrace of their hand.
A pale thigh
Exposed in the fluorescent lights at midnight.
Teardrops splattered across their smooth surface.
Buzzing in anticipation;
Blood coursing through pale blue veins
Buried deep.
There’s something beautiful about the pain;
The ruby beads that color the line you draw:
Not too little,
Not too much,
Rusty razors don’t cut deep.
Three long cuts running parallel
Bleeding in time to the beat of your heart.
Pour rubbing alcohol on top
And breathe in the sting.
Wet tissues stained pink to match the razor’s handle:
The evidence disappears with a flush.
Your mind newly sharp,
Hands shaking,
Chest rising and falling at an ungodly tempo.
You’ll be wearing long pants tomorrow.