Red scratches along my wrist. Not deadly, not deep. Blood red.
Beautiful.
I stroke the mark, deepening the color. Widening it.
A candle burns at my feet, the dead match beside it collecting dust. I take the match and rub the charred remains into the mark. Red and black. Now it looks deeper than it is. More painful than it is. Even more beautiful.
I wipe my wrist across my pillow. Excess ash comes away with the red. Not much of either, but enough. I take the pillow and flip it over so no one may see my reminder.
I stroke my wrist once more. Twice more. Thrice.
And again.
If I were found now, I would probably be given Hell. "Are you suicidal?" and "Are you depressed?" would fly from the mouth of my friends. My family. Even strangers would probably worry. But I'm not ill. Not at all.
Okay, maybe a little bit ill, but it's not like I'm hurting anyone. I don't want to die. I want to bleed. I am a coward who cannot stand pain.
Red is a lovely color.
I bend over my wrist, and lick the wound.
I recoil.
Ink doesn't taste all that lovely.
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Where souls disappear...
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Glee... my image seems not to work... emo
月に代わってお仕置きよ。