I was trying to cut myself. I wanted to cut for the cut itself,

 I was trying to cut myself. I wanted to cut for the cut itself, for the delicate severing of capillaries, the transgression of veins. I needed to cut like the way your lungs scream for air when you swim the entire length of the pool underwater in one breath. It was a craving so organic it seemed to have arisen from the skin itself. Imagining the sticky-slick scarlet trails of my own blood soothed me.