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A red path to blood

Clawing at the eyes,
Scraping at the face,
Furrowing down the legs,
Over the body,
Loathing.

Sawing frantically,
The flimsy but sharp ragged edge digging in,
Striving to leave a mark,
Down the side of the forehead,
Flaw the face,
To make someone ask.

Watch the lines brighten,
Once surprised white,
Then pink,
An angry red at last,
Gone by morning.
Shorts are ok.

The heat of the anger,
The shame,
Dissipate through the thinned skin,
And the air cools the scrapes,
Tingling with relief.

First target is the legs.
Then the arms.
Torso,
Then head and neck,
Gain stripes.

Cool burns that fade,
Leaving relief in their wake,
Deceptively harmless,
Calmly soothing,
A red path to blood.