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.