What self-mutilation is.

It's holding the knife
it's frost on a burn
it's animal grace
it's knowing your name;
it's definition from a Northern star,
it's seeing fat that's white.
It's watching blood form beads and emerge
it's feeling the warmth as it runs on your skin,
it's livid pain, by association
it's spinning away
it's right on your door;
it's coming to and looking down
it's seeing ruins painted red
it's pragmatism coming home
it's jumping up and making do.
It's using socks
it's cutting shirts
it's makeshift, going all the way;
it's acting fast
it's shutting down
it's stopping Red from telling tales.
It's so many things at just one time,
it's a one colour rainbow homage to pain.
It's knowing that you're happy.