i miss cutting

I am intoxicated by the mere sight of my own mortality. A deep scarlet plasma trickling down the brightly contrasting white skin of my inner arm. I observe my utter vulnerability with eyes that feel unlike my own.

These eyes behold the footage documenting my mutilation with curiosity and fascination, as it seems to display suffering, yet have contrarily managed to manipulate time.

All within a single breath, it has quieted the storm and reset the meandering routes of my accelerating thoughts.

The instantaneous relief from the overbearing sensory harassment beckons me as I ponder the misconception of pain affiliated with my self-inflicted release of endorphins.

I observe no physical sensation, as suffering has been transcended in this glorious sacrifice to the gods who feed on the blood of the damned.

I am but an animal due for expiration in an isolating world of creatures and crawlers found in darkness that seem to squirm when a light shines upon them.

Animals that lack the instinctive action it takes to survive, or that have lost it as it has its hope.

Knowing there is such suffering as a being neurochemically unable to experience relief, I would want to be put out of my misery.

If only the elements would have such mercy on me.