Then my senses are alerted to the pain.
I can exhale. Inhaling is harder, so I feed the addiction knowing each time it wants more.
More.
More.
Until it’s gorged on my blood.
But the bitter fucking irony is Ican’tdie.
Not yet.
Not here when I’ll become Sasha’s next meal.
Or another body to violate.
Definitely fucking not while Delilah is trapped on an island I haven’t managed to find.
So I keep cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Like maybe, just fucking maybe, if I cut deep enough or for long enough, the bad parts will bleed out.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Like I’ll find that wrongthinginside of me to stop it all, because applying more pain to the pain is rational as fuck.
Cutting.
Cutting.
“But you can’t stop.”
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
I can’t stop when my blood drips onto the tile.
Cutting.
