Impure
Drop, drop, drop,
The water falls from the bathroom sink.
This noise is irritating,
But I cannot lift myself off of the floor.
The floor…once pearly white,
Now deep red.
My blood that has been spilled onto the floor,
It flows and fills the tiny cracks between the tiles.
Also, discarded but not forgotten,
Are the many blades I own.
All stained,
All used.
I long to pick one up,
But there is too much pain surging through me.
I wait for the pain to ease,
Only to bring more upon me.
Waiting…this is the worst part,
My hands are shaking,
I'm scratching my body,
I need to do it again.
I grab the blade,
Rage in my eyes,
The pain should leave sooner.
How am I to tell which pain is from before,
And happening now.
I am so weak,
I must pay for being so useless.
I thrust the blade into my arm,
Wildly ripping away.
Blood pours rapidly out of the fresh gashes,
The pool it forms spreads.
I switch hands,
There is no more room left on that arm.
Soon, I move to my legs,
Once pure…untouched.
They too will be raped by the blade,
No longer virgins of pain.
I madly thrash at my legs,
No part of me will be untouched.
The pool of blood is becoming larger,
Spreading to the walls quickly.
And yet, I do not cease,
I will continue to pay,
I will become completely impure.
I throw my clothes back on;
Everyone is waiting.