Monday's Fiction in 58

Slice
Blood, like roses, blooms from the straight-razor cut she draws across her forearm. It’s in moments like this, where the pain is a mix with the pleasure, does she fine solace. Old scars cross her arms like country roads, places she’s been, terror she’s seen. She knows she can’t help it, but those cuts are getting deeper…

1 comments:

Dee Martin said...

I read about this and hear about it, but have never actually met it face to face. It's probably one of the saddest ways of coping ever. That's all I can think - so very sad.