Adrenaline races through my body as the blade neatly slices through my light coffee colored skin, blood rushing to the scene of my committed crime. This hasn’t been the first time I’ve committed this offense, I can’t remember the first time I did it. The only thing I remember is how relaxed it made me feel as I watched my very own blood trickle down my arm, creating a sensation that nobody but us, self injurers would ever understand. After two more cuts, I stop for a moment admiring my artwork or my “real” tattoos as I call them. A few silent moments have now passed and the blood has subsided. I feel so much better now, like a strong release of emotions have been set free my body.
Metaphorically, my body is a prison. Emotions and I are the prisoners trapped within my body,
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