Red Ink

I'm an artist, and an artist can use many different tools efficiently. One of those tools is pencils, a building block of art in itself. When they get dull, you shapen them, simple as that. Or at least it should be. Some artists use different methods to sharpen their pencils, for example, a box cutter. I am one of them. It is mostly calming, gently shaving wood until the pencil reaches a usable point. But what if I'm worked up, upset, sloppier? Impatient, hacking off wood, searching for that unrealistic instant gratification. What if that knife slipped? What if it wasn't an accident? The thought crosses my mind sometimes, with having so many options around me. I could say I'm sharpening my pencil, nothing more, nothing less. Truthfully, I'd be sharpening my arm, my wrist, my fingers, to a POINT. I've never actually caved, even though it would be so easy. The physical and mental scars would be too real and noticeable. Sometimes, I don't want to restrict myself, to let my blood flow. But one wrong move? The blade punctures too deep, through a vein. Vision blurs, stains spreading. All it takes is one slip up, and I'd slip away for good.