The Cut

A poem I wrote some time ago about cutting.

The Cut
By: Wyn

Crimson red,
warm and wet,
pools out from beneath my skin.
I cannot turn
my gaze away.
Again and again, the blade sinks in.

Horrible? No.
Fascination.
Of this pain, I have control.
My life spirals,
reaching chaos.
To that headspace, I must go.

Will there ever
come a time
for this obsession to finally stop?
I don't know.
It seems unlikely.
From the blade, I taste a drop.