Seven

Seven little cuts, just seven, a nonsensical number that draws the line between living another day or drowning in a sea of tears.  Watching each small niche fill red, predictable, even in the flow of blood that comes to the surface, fast at first and then as the heart slows as does the welling of red tears.

The red tears replace the clear ones that would run down cheeks,  there is solace in the precision of first the cutting then the watching the red.  Even though I bring those cuts to my lips, drinking back in the poison I seek to escape.  There is an intangible pwer there, even though I drink my own life back into a shell, it will keep flowing, at least till Black Death comes in and finally releases me from this to oblivion. 

No one will notice, no one sees this just like they look past me most of the time, their cheap thrill.  Part of me hates myself that it comes to this, using pain and precision to rid myself of inner chaos and part of me loves it, to feel something other than the inside to stop tears Gods know I hate to cry.

I dont want them to see me cry, it embarrasses me, keeps me vulnerable, keeps me from doing what I MUST do to drain some of it from me.If I dont I feel dangerous, unpredictable, chaotic.  If they saw, they would try and stop me, letting this poison fester, become more viralent, letting them revel in my sorrow.

What could I have done in the past to make the gods hate me so much that they release their most horrific deamons on me?  What small gesture could I make to cease their joke on a mere mortal woman.  Surely if the Christian G-d or any others exist they would end this somehow.  Even a cosmic joke must have its limits.