Cutting?

I cut because I want to feel. I want to feel the sting of the blade, and then you know how you’re arm feels limp and dead for a little? I enjoy that. I like running my fingers over my cuts, and feeling the bumps along the way down. I don’t cut my wrists; I cut my upper arm. My upper arm is like a journal now, telling stories of my pain, anxiety, and frustrations. I started cutting about a week ago, and I’ve already lost count of my cuts. I hate to say it, but you know when you read that some people get addicted to self harm? That’s probably pathetic little me. My cuts have gotten a bit deeper, and I don’t mind scars. My favorite thing, though, is the blood. The blood itself is sort of satisfying. It feels as though the blood is all your worries, pain, and sufferings are in you, right? Running deep along your veins. Maybe, when people bleed to death, they were just letting out their worries, pain, and suffering. I plan to keep cutting until school is over, really. I am ashamed when people see them, but in all honesty, I like my little cuts. They were there when I felt like I wasn’t. A cut a day keeps your demons away! And hidden. And locked up. But that part doesn’t rhyme. Alright bye.