calling.

It's been 4.5 months since I've hurt myself, or rather, since I cut myself. Wrist banging counts as hurting. The cutting is still hard to control, although this is the longest stretch ever since I started seven years ago. My body has spilt it's share of blood.

I'm going to admit, right now, that I am addicted to cutting.I'm in love with it; Action and idea. The white lines that lace my skin call out to me and ask for more. I need more. Just a few more, then I will be done. One long pretty one for my arm, maybe with some smaller ones criss-crossing back and forth, back and forth white stripes that blossom red, spilling over and down my arms, warm red like a lover's caress.

This is a problem. I can't let myself do it, but it's like a drug and it leaves me shaking and crying and begging on the ground. "Let it tear, let it tear" I cry, but there is a part of me, I'm split in two, that holds me fast, stays my hand. I don't let me cut it out. I don't let me feel the red even though I want it more than anything.

Not anything, there is something I want more. So much more, that I'm willing to stop trying to stop.

But my arms are calling...