See How Strange I Am?

I've been doing really good with the whole not cuting thing. And the other night when I got the urge to do some 'artwork', I stopped myself and examined the why. I wrote it out in my journal. I gave it thought but I also let it be raw. I needed to justify the things I did. I needed to remind myself that I had a reason. That I wasn't just kukoo-bananas. And after it all, I didn't need to cut. So here's what I wrote:

S.C.F.

I carve his initials into my wrist. He is my forbidden love. I have to hide. But this is my way of giving myself to him. And of letting our secret subtly into the open. He doesn't see it that way. I suppose he thinks it's quite rediculous. I agree with him. But when I see the blood, its as if every memory I have with him is channeled. They are like ribbons, now intertwined with the red in my head. So that every time I see blood streaming helplessly yet unashemedly down my arm, I will see his face; feel his touch. His lips against mine. The tingling sensation I feel when our tongues dance. Our skin touching. Even the rush of fear the time I smacked him. Different yet all the same because of the link my blood has allowed me to create.

S.C.F

With these three letters I sentence myself to a lifetime of torment. A branding that will ever remind me of my secret love. It is the only way I am able to express my love for him--or anything else for that matter. The only way that leaves everyone else out. And so I have come to crave it. Blood. That and anything that goes along with it that let's me express my feelings, both mental and physical. The sting. The rush. The throbbing. I crave all of it. I see it in my dreams. I smell it when I close my eyes.

S.C.F.

Those three letters that will be there... Forever... A tattoo of sort.