I can't take it any more.
My teeth dig into my lips, breaking the skin
as blood swells to the surface
and pools, scarlet.
I made a mistake and I don't know how to correct it.
I can't cope with what I've done, embarrassment and
disappointment shimmering in my wet eyes.
My skin irritates me
and I dig my nails, trying to ease the itch.
But it burns and aches, promising more if I would add more
pressure.
So I rake my hand across,
tearing the tender skin.
Blood begins to show in spots.
But I can't stop scratching, I can't stop.
It builds, and it feels like my own version of ecstasy
and it's too much, it's all too much.
Then I look at my nails, layers of dead skin beneath them.
And the pleasure disappears
and I am alone
staring at a bottle of hydrogen peroxide
left out to cleanse the wounds.