You sit there watching as the red paint beads up against the pale background. You sit there and watch as your painting of red covers the pale canvas... You're stuck just watching as the scarlet red dripps and dribbles. You're fascinated that you could do something like that yet at the same time you are filled with disgust with yourself knowing that it was stupid, that you probably stained your clothes, or the carpet, or even your bedding. But deep down you don't care. You expressed yourself and that's all that matters. So what if the canvas was your arm and your paint was your blood and the paint brush was a razor or scissors. All that matters is the fact that you no longer hurt inside, all that matters is the feeling of warmth you feel deep down. Honestly who cares that your friends will be mad at you and probably won't talk to you for weeks. Who cares that he will be upset with you because you said you would quit, yet he can't say much because he did it too and you didn't get mad, instead you held him and told him it would be okay, you told him you understood why he did it. You understood more than he could ever realize....