To Write On Her Arms

The blood dripped of her arm in a steady rhythm, mixing with tears as they fell. Making the color a diluted watery red. Her arm was cris crossed with lines looking like a toddlers first drawings; she slashed at the scared skin with her own type of pen. The color was red. It made her feel alive. The pain that was growing more intense with each line written, was a relief; the puddle of blood on the tiled floor was like an electoral machine shocking her heart to beat, to feel. The hurt inside was finally dosed with her own form of painkiller, one that took the focus off her issues and her self-hate. It felt better, everything felt okay again. She felt sane.

Everything was silent. Blood oozed down her arm and drip onto the tiled floor, Thud, thud, thud.  She sat with her red colored pen in her hand, looking at her artwork. She was in control of what was written. It was in her hands alone. The pen slide onto the floor joining with her tears and blood. She was done for today, maybe tomorrow she would pick up where she left off and continue with her artwork or maybe there would be no need,  maybe it will be a good day.