In the privacy of my own creation, I play the lead,
crafting patterns where secrets are laid, where I bleed.
Geometric designs upon my skin,
a silent record of battles within.
Not for the pain, but for the peace it brings,
finding quiet in the red that springs.
Each hair plucked, an echo of control,
a meticulous task that soothes my soul.
With surgical precision, scabs are peeled,
revealing layers that never fully healed.
It’s not the hurt I seek, but the quietude,
in this ritual, my fears elude.
Watching the red rise, a silent scream,
in these moments, I’m lost within a dream.
It’s not about the pain, nor the tears that fall,
it’s about feeling real, through it all.
Every cut, every pull, a story told,
in the quiet, I watch it unfold.
This canvas of flesh, a diary kept hidden,
a place where control and chaos are bidden.
Here in the quiet, with each careful incision,
I find a moment of painful precision.
So I continue, with each meticulous mark,
finding clarity in the quiet dark.
A silent witness to the change I command,
in this world of flesh, by my own hand.