it's been years.
plagued by my own thoughts.
haunted by my own tendencies.
abused by my own words.
i may not draw blood,
but this pen is just as painful as a razor,
just as sharp.
slicing through the skin of my emotions,
clean and precise,
over and over,
the inky blood seeping out
drop by drop.
every time i return to this ritual
i leave it even number than the time before.
i lose a part of my humanity every time,
leaving it to dry up on these pages.
shriveled,
broken,
useless.