Skin.

Pale skin turned firey red.
My flesh is angry with me, and in its anger, rebels.
Healing too quickly, leaving behind no scar, no skin slightly paler than the rest.
Yet this flesh does not know that its rebellion just makes me want to assault it once again, test its will.
It is trying to stop me, but these attempts just fuel my craving for the bite, the endorphins, the red tears.
And most of all, the need for the lingering evidence of my crimes against myself, a faint pink line, a white ghost, permanent reminder.
No, my own body denies me what I most desire.
So these cravings remain, and, when supressed for too long, come out recklessly, endangering this secret.
My skin cries for itself, for me. Red tears.
It will learn.

Coping is all you can do in this world, if only to keep from drowning.

Author's Note

Old, but I haven't been writing much lately.

Reviews

[Hollywood]

Loved it. :]

[Luke Sentnl]

Hmm, interesting, very interesting... It's meaning is either truly obvious, or entirely vague.

[Shannon]

An amazingly emotional write here. The sadness and the despair was projected excellently and i could feel what the narrator was feeling
Fabulous work.

[deeps]

such a sad write here. I can imagine this is about Cancer. I have people in my familt that dealt with breast cancer. I am sorry about this. You expressed your emotions well here.