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You never flinch, never cry - the only thing you feel
is the control held hostage by the daisy razor in your
right hand - always the right hand... more precision.
Release - the kind you get as you watch the blood collect
at the surface then run with rancor down your arm, or leg,
whatever isnt already ridden with unwanted healing.
What was it this time?
Does it matter, it was your fault anyway.
You couldnt fix it, why couldnt you fix it?
More blood unfurls from the fresh wound on you left hip -
one more for good measure.
"Where did I go wrong?", you ask yourself as you strategically
slice two more - this time on your right hip... got to be
even.
Then you stop and realize that you're almost out of bandaids -
SHIT!
"What about next time?" this is the third box in three weeks -
wow, how even... you laugh lifelessly at yourself and then
look at your work in the mirror...
The bittersweet sight of success is numbing as you start to shake
habitually with the satisfaction of punishing pain.