The hard thoughts come, and the knife craves flesh, none other than my own, like some dark obsession. Peculiar comfort, in blood.
Creating scars on myself, then making them bigger. A demon I call this thing, this addiction to cuts, to the pain and suffering.
A sick pride in the marks, and where they came from, my sanity bounces wildly. Or was there any to begin? The allure still remains.
A battle constantly raging, I’ve fought this beast before, and failed to destroy him. Will I fare better in this bout? No choice but to hope.
Hope for a victory, a win, a final defeat of my foe, but is my hope delusion? Or can I win this fight? I fear only time will tell.