She sliced my wrists again the other night. She didn't think she could do it any more. She thought it would hurt. She didn't think she still had it in me. But she did. She cut, expecting me to stop after the first, but when it felt good instead of hurt, she kept going. She watched as the blood began to flow down my arm. She wanted to rub it all over my body... Her body is her canvas, and she wanted to paint. She wanted to cut on her stomache, and up and down her arms.