I sit alone. Alone, yet not. I have dozens of voices pouring into my mind, each with their own conflicting opinion. Their voices calm to silence as I press the knife to my arm. Sacred serenity. It slices, blood pooling on my skin, dripping onto my crossed legs, cascading onto open thighs. I am my own blood bother as I pick open ever scab, blood slowly crawling from one wound to another. It hurts mutely, far away from where I am, hovering outside my body. I am fully alone and it hurts, yet less than all the voices. I drop full force onto my bed. Sleep evades me.
