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Poem
That simple gleam of beautifully polished silver
Never fails to get my adrenaline flowing.
I polish it every time after its done.
I can't help it.
It just looks so pretty when its been polished
It is so small, yet so powerful
It can cause so much pain,
Whether wanted, or not. 
I love the feeling of the cold, sharp silver against my skin.
Just resting there, waiting.
My legs keep trembling.
Why?
I have done this hundreds of times before
And it never fails to create that feeling.
The feeling of control.
I have control now.
No matter what happens out there, 
I have control in here.
I press the blade against my white skin.
A sharp pain alerts my mind.
This is the good part.
Everything is wiped from my mind.
Everything...
Except the ripping of my soft flesh.
I can feel every tiny nerve screaming at my brain, 
To force itself to stop.
But my brain has stopped responding at this point.
The blood starts to trickle down my leg.
Slowly at first, 
But as more blood is pumped through the small slash in my leg
It starts to roll down my leg with surprising speed.
A single drop is released from my leg.
I watch it fall to the floor.
A small splash occurs,
Not really a splash...but a, 
A splatter.
Its such a beautiful red.
So pure.
many more drops of blood splatter the white tile of my bathroom.
I wipe my hands down my leg.
The blood from the wound is now lightly coating my thigh.
I lightly rub my fingertips across the scars on my thighs.
Some are smaller than others.
Some reach from one side of my thigh to the other.

I am quickly brought out of my trance by a noise in the hall.
Quickly I get up and pull a washcloth out of the cabinet.
I run the water and soak the washcloth.
I wipe my leg off 
And put a bandage over it, 
Just in case it bleeds anymore.
Then I wipe up the floor.
The last thing I do,
Is wipe off my blade with the cloth.
I polish it till it shines again.
I place it in a small black box,
And walk to my room.
Dropping the bloody washcloth 
Into the hamper on the way.
See, good as new.
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