I wrote this because I've always wanted to experience cutting but I'll never have the balls to do it. Not to mention I self-harm in other, slower ways.

Deeper

The knives are mocking me.

It's enough that I can see my own goddamn reflection in them. Beady eyes, puffy and red from crying. Tear-stained cheeks. Bleeding lip from where I've been biting it.

But the way they're just sitting on the counter. They know I'm staring at them. They know I want them on my skin, in my skin. They know they're my weakness. They just sit there, mocking me, glaring at me arrogantly. "You know you want to," they say. So shiny. So smooth, fresh. New. Clean.

No. I've gotten too far to relapse like this. I could stand up from the barstool and leave my kitchen. But I don't. I don't because I miss it.

The thoughts surround me again. The familiar thoughts, the low hum in the back of my mind, always going, always churning. Always there.

"It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within. It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin." He was so right.

Completely beside myself, I grab the biggest, most daunting knife. I run my finger other the smooth blade, see my disturbed grin in the reflection. I know what's coming; I know what I'm going to do.

I roll up my t-shirt up past my elbow, placing my arm on the granite top of the island. I take the knife in my left hand and lower it to my forearm.

I hiss as the cold steel slides over my porcelain skin. I missed it so much.

The knife must be nine inches, smooth and clean and friendly. Inviting. It knows its purpose. It knows what it wants.

I know what I want.

I tip the blade onto my skin ever-so-lightly, finally, deliciously, pierce my skin. I feel a pinch as a drop of blood is emitted.

My head falls back and my toes curl. I let loose of the knife and it simply leans against its wound, comforting it. Tears flood my eyes and my breathing comes out rapidly.

I see my pain oozing from the cut. I feel my fears, my fear to be alone, my fear of my mind, sliding down my arm. The sting of my depression feels so right, so good. Perfect.

Grasping the knife, my lifeline, my need and my desire, I run it across my skin, across the street because I want to bask in my pain. I'm not ready for it to be over; pain is all I need.

My left hand is shaking and I take the knife to my mouth, cleaning the knife of my pain. I watch with wild eyes as the dark liquid runs down my arm, soiling my shirt. It's bliss.

I smile and I laugh. I take my finger and soak it in the blood, running dark lines over my jeans and my shirt. Fill it again and taste it. Fill it again and run it down my cheeks alongside my tears.

I tilt the knife towards me on the counter and look at my reflection. From far away I look like shit: tears and blood all over my face; fat cheeks from frowning; lips raw from biting. Upon further glance though, my eyes tell the truth.

They're shining. Positively blissful, free. Happy.

Alive.

This is how I feel in this moment: alive. I feel my pain oozing across my skin. I feel the sting of the wound. I feel my fist clenching the knife. I feel the smooth blade lying across my wrist. I feel a smile teasing at the corner of my lips.

I dip the point of the knife into the scar I made, searching deeper for something. Deeper in my psyche. More. I need more, I need to feel it pouring out, I need to feel it all. I fucking need to feel the pain, the monstrous pain overcome my body.

I hit something and it's really pouring now. The knife finds its way back to the counter and my arm is exploding, dampening everything. There's so much, so much. Too much. Too much of everything.

I stand up and stare at my arm. I don't know what to do. I need to stop it but it's so beautiful. It's perfect and gorgeous and just delicious. I've never gone this deep and I can feel myself starting to get dizzy from excitement.

My pants are soaked, as is my shirt, and I clutch my arm to my chest, crying and laughing and closing my eyes. It feels amazing.

I bask in my glory and soon I hear a door slam and fast steps coming towards me. I hear talking but I don't know what he's saying.

He's shaking me and staring at me. I can see the pain in his eyes. The worry. Doesn't he know he can make that go away?

He finally gets into me, his sharp voice ripping my insides. "What the hell did you do?"

I look down and take a finger to my arm, sucking on it. I look into his eyes so he can see I'm okay, that I'm good.

"Why?" he says with defeat in his voice.

I mumble as I see black on the edges of my sight. "It's right."