The blood glimmers under the sterile lights,

Flickering ruby, scarlet, dead.

The pallor of your skin,

So pale, flushed, sickly.

The blades drag,

Almost erotic,

Caressing the skin,

And leaving petty scars.

The blood flows freely,

Staining the porcelain sink,

Pooling crimson on the tiled floor.

The blades kept hidden, almost forbidden,

Used only in private, like other taboo toys.

The blood drips, oozing,

The tingling under your skin,

Something akin to arousal.