I bloody my skin.  It is a desperate act.  I open bloody wounds that stain my clothes and my hands as a way to let myself breathe.  But I feel no better when I see the crimson stains.  Is my blood not enough?  Am I not enough?  Am I even worthy of being enough?

I remember when my blood ran hot with love and longing.  I remember seeing her and feeling the happiness coursing through my veins.  I remember feeling the beat of her heart beneath my ear.  It was steady.  It was real.  I remember the feel of her pulse beneath my lips.  I felt it at her wrist, at her neck.  I remember how warm we were.  I remember how full I felt.  But she took the fullness with her.

I bruise my skin.  It is a lonely act.  I turn my knuckles purple and blue and red to let myself breathe.  But I am still alone, no matter how bruised I become.  Is the sharpness of the pain not enough?  Am I supposed to feel this way?  Am I even worthy of not being lonely?

I remember when we left lingering marks on each others’ skin.  I remember the ring, the necklaces, the bracelets.  I remember how they meant permanence.  It was all ours.  It was all permanent.  We promised.  I remember how happy we were.  I remember how right it felt.  But she took the happiness with her.

I bloody and bruise my skin.  I bloody and bruise my skin.  I bloody and bruise my skin.  It is all I can do.