Beaded Blood

In a fit or curiosity I took a knife,
A sharp knife,
An artist's knife,
And drew it across my wrist,
The top where freckles speckle my skin.
I drew a line,
A beautiful line,
And then another,
And then once more,
Until I possessed,
Fourteen little red lines,
Criss crossing my skin.
Separate flesh,
I thought softly,
As the blade cut through,
And my veins weeped,
And my body cried out,
Though I stayed silent.