The Perspective of the Boy who Cut

Sat, 11/21/2020 - 12:15 -- osato

It will only be a small scrape.

Then I start.

I get caught in the rhythm of stroking my skin.

I stroke harshly and with the sharp edge.

I can't stop.

I see it getting red.

I see blood starting to slowly ooze out of the wound,

but I keep going.

Striking my skin harder, faster.

It's not me in control anymore.

I can feel it pulsing.

It's starting to swell.

Redder and redder it gets,

more and more blood starting to flow out.

And yet I still continue.

Harsher strokes still, the wound is widening now.

I'm an outsider in my own body,

watching these hands that are no longer mine tarnish my body.

And suddenly, I stop.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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