As I lay here on my bed, cold and alone.
I take out my weapon of choice.
I examine it, miss it.
I suddenly remember what that wonderful pain felt like.
I quickly slice it across my wrist, cringe, then smile.
Feels like home.
I watch the dark crimson blood trickle down my arm.
It's warm.
Unlike the cold place it came from.
I watch it bleed, feel it sting and burn.
Then it swells up, raising like an unwanted pimple.
Only difference, I like this swell.
The higher the swell, the deeper the wound, the deeper the wound, the better the pleasure.
A few minutes go by, and I'm still numb.
Not nearly numb enough the stop the pain and agony.
The thin cuts across my weak wrist darken with dry blood.
They remind me of the pain they got rid of.
I put the weapon away.
It's in its home now.
I no longer feel the power and control.
I'm vulnerable again.
I'm weak.
Laying here on my bed, cold, and alone.
