Writing on My Arms

I called it writing on my arms, when I cut the first time.
I liked to watch the blood drip, on an arm white as wax. With a safety pin, I would spell out words, or names, or animals. I’d write things that would distract me.
Was I really, truly unhappy? No. I was just spoiled, so high on life, that the roller coaster ride down, would leave me down in the dumps. I liked to cut when I was bored.
I tried once with a razor blade, but it didn’t hurt enough, so I went to safety pins. Scraping away, it would hurt more, and keep me busy for longer.
A JH for Jason, an E for Erik, and an M for Michael.
I could have had all of them, all of those boys, but one managed to escape. Like the drop of blood that fell from my arm, and stained my aunt’s carpet.
After that, I never cut again.

(Note: I'm not goth. I'm blonde. I'm not white, I'm indonesian. This is not about me thank you. =))