Glassy eyes lolled up into the ceiling,
Limbs slackly splayed across crimson flecked linens.
My breathing deeply shallows,
Coral lungs barely inflating,
My languid heart faintly whispering against my chest.

When mania is roaring through my mind,
Setting synapses ablaze and tearing neurons asunder,
When depression is clouding my thoughts with overcast skies,
And sorrowfully mourning at its own funeral,
When anxiety is shredding me from the inside out,
Viciously eating me alive,
It can all be quieted with just one slice of the flesh,
Two brands seared into skin,
Three bruises hemorrhaging through a porcelain epidermis.

Everything melts away,
Walls cease to exist,
Feelings take a backseat to floods of endorphins,
My body goes limp like a rag doll,
Lifeless, dead-eyed, and mute.

All those dazed memories,
Those moments in time when nasty, pesky things
Like emotions were no more,
Still fill my soul with fluttering elation,
Yearning for that sweet release.

But it’s just – too – good.

That liquefying of existence,
The eradication of empathies and sensations,
I could revisit in one single beat of my swelling heart.

I have a penchant for sharps,
A fascination with blades,
And a spiritual, vast, complex connection,
With intense physical suffering.

Yet I know if I were to ever flirt with those alluring, glistening edges again,
Whether it be a miniscule razor or a tight, precise scalpel,
That I would be a fool.

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