The Screaming Kettle

 The kettle is screaming at me from the other room. Not literally, but it's like a giant magnet and I'm made of iron. I can't resist it. It's sorta like when the last donut  in the box is calling out, begging you to finish it off.

But the kettle, it wants me to come and play. It wants me to fill it up, press that button that clicks so loud, and listen as the water slowly boils. All the while my heart beats out of my chest in anticipation of the end goal. The whisp of steam curls from the spout, the moment is nearly here.

The rolling boil shakes the kettle slightly, and my heart beats with it faster and faster. The switch snaps off, the water is boiling hot enough the orange light goes out. Show time.

I turn my forearm upwards to the sky as I grab the still bubbling kettle. There is no hesitation, I just start pouring the full contents over my arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. The shearing pain is excruciating, as I watch the fllesh turn color and blisters appear.

Its all so stupid. I feel dumb, ashamed. I know it's wrong, but I can't fig the urge. I'm writing this to capture my thoughts. To capture the allure. Maybe this will help, I don't know. All I know is it scares me and I for know what else to do.