Seeing Red

If I see through me... why shouldn't you?

If you see through me, why does it surprise you that I see through you?



My room smells of burnt flesh.

Burnt flesh and "Corps d'Amour Fougeux" or "Body of Fiery Passion".

The flame whips the side of the glass.

It's cold.

Everything is cold except my red wrists.



Knives, blades... that crap isn't for me.

I don't do it for the pain. I do it for the pleasure.

The heat building up inside.

A sharp jab, the numbness of the heat...

Hot wax.