Cutting

The first cut, just a scratch. Barely there. The second? Dives beneath skin, but only slightly. The third goes a little deeper, hardly drawing blood. By the fourth, my heart is already pounding in anticipation, anticipation for the dark red liquid. My mouth waters with thirst for the fifth, and that need is satisfied as saon as I feel the slice. But I want more. Need more. And I will quench that need, with the blood that pours continuously from my veins.