I stood in front of the mirror

a sharp blade resting

in the palm of my hand.

I pull up my shirt

and all I see is fat.

One cut, I feel pain.

Two cuts, I bite on my tongue.

Then three cuts, I think I'm done.

My work of art

is now complete.

And as I pushed my fingers against my newest wound,

I stared into my tedious eyes.

But I'm fine

I'm fine

I'll be fine.

Minutes passed.

I pulled away my bloody fingers

and placed them

on the tip of my tongue.

I tasted like dirty coins.