My Own Blood

I don't fear death. In fact I dream of it. Imagine. Always gruesome. I can just vision my blood pouring out of me. Its always only me. The sight of blood on others, movies, etc. makes me nauseous. But my own, inspires me. I can just see myself falling onto a katana, hitting my organs, and just letting the pain overcome me. Its so wonderful. The sweet, sweet pain. Something, the only thing I have ever been able to control. My blood flow. Well, for the most part. Even if it wasn't myself always giving the wounds. My blood, was still mine, no one has taken that yet. I try an keep it, or let it go, its my will, the only thing I can will. Or that is how I have lived my life. I still, have a hard time overcoming the want, the itch, the desire to see my blood. To feel the skin separate, peel away from the flesh, meat, underneath. The small veins, the larger ones, cut into them, see the blue turn a bright red as it makes contact with the air. Dripping downward, flowing, following the lines of my skin. The brightness fades as I let it dry were it has fallen. Feeling the tingle of my wounds trying to heal themselves. Traumatized. Fear. Wondering why this was caused, why my brain let it happen. Sigh. Will I ever be better? I don't believe it, I seem to fall and will crash into the arms of death with as brutal a death as I can manage. I was never meant to be apart of this world. Not a living breathing being. Just a mere object to be used. Played with. But it is still my blood.