Slicing deep, I feel nothing except the most heady relief as my skin parts like too tender meat under the blade. I’m removed from myself then. Released, renewed, reinvented as my blood runs down my forearm to puddle on the table.
This cut, like most things in my life, isn’t as deep as it seems. Or maybe it’s deeper than I realize but ignore the truth because I can’t handle it.
I look at the ruby-red concoction that is my blood as it collects. So beautiful and exciting as it tries to survive outside of me. It’s gorgeous, vibrant like the woman I passed on the street with her slender waist and easy smile. When’s the last time I smiled so sweetly?
Another cut and I hiss this time. It’s not along my artery because I don’t want to end my life just add feeling and color to it. The blood beads as I slice and then runs like a river along the first. The pain is an exotic mix.
I’m a fast-moving stream again and my life feels closer than it did before I cut.
Slipping the razor blade into that place I keep it for moments when I need to feel, I clean myself up as efficiently as I slid the knife across my arm. The cuts are throbbing, angry sores beneath the bandages. Blinking lights that I am alive.
Finally I can smile.