A poem, about the dual-side to self-harm, of cutting yourself.
Blood, the ruby red glisten, the glisten as it drips down your arm,
Like red, liquid gold, like the glistening of rubies.
The pain, the sting, dare I say it sting good?
What is happening? Where is this coming from.
Such beauty from me, the way it fills, the way it marks, the way it moves.
There is some sort of beauty in this. But this may be what I tell myself to feel better
To feel normal, to feel whole.
What is this, what is life, what is death.
Blood is beautiful, in some way,
At least I have one redeeming feature.