I am sitting on the tiled floor, blood everywhere.
My blood on my hands, face, my skin and my hair.
I wonder how I can talk my way out of this one,
without monitoring or constant suspicion.

I am crouching on the tiled floor, wipes in hand,
desperately wiping at where I saw the blood land.
Riding the high of dopamine and adrenaline,
and knowing that I would do it again.

I am sat on the bed, a sleeve of blood down my arm.
It won’t take long until they become a sleeve of scars.
I am walking on tarmac, making my way out of class.
My mind goes haywire when there’s a broken blade on the path.

I am standing by the mirror, washing my hands in the sink,
with the feeling of how the blood sits on my skin, shiny and slick.
I look down at my clothes and I see all the bloodstains.
More clothes dotted with reminders again.

As if I need a reminder of the things this has fucking ruined.

One line of blood trails down my arm.

I already know it’ll be another thin white scar.




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