Crimson Tears

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Don't know what category this would fall under it's not exactly poetry.

Submitted: January 26, 2018

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Submitted: January 26, 2018



I hate the person I've become. I have no say or control in my life. I'm simply standing by waiting for it to be ready for me to live it. I hate it. I hate them. I want out but that would be too easy so instead I cope the only way I know how and like.

I look up at myself in the bathroom mirror at my naked body. I lock the door and reach for the sweet relief on the counter, looking at the cold blade written on the side in red "Relief" lifting it to my arm.

Hot crimson tears soak my skin. I bite my lip preventing myself from screaming or crying out. I want this pain, I treasure it, I have no control anywhere else in my life but this I can control. My crimson tears drip down onto the white tile and porcelain counter.

The tears keep falling, as the paper layer around my body tears at the pressure of my blade I take deep breathes enduring the pain. I've never gone further than my arms. Today of all was the worst and I can practically feel Death's cold nimble hand wrap around my wrist and lift the red blade to my neck. I can hear her voice in my ear.
"Peace, relief, happiness, freedom. Come with me." Her hot breath against my skin sends chills down my spine and I press the blade harder against my skin before pulling away. She hisses and disappears.

Placing the red blade on the counter I rinse it in the sink. Starting a shower I step under the warm blast of water and rinse my skin washing the evidence of my ritual that I've done a thousand times. I watch as the red riptide of water swirls around my feet down the drain. Once the tears stop I get out of the shower and cover up the evidence of my control with layers of make up and clothing.

As I unlock the door and exit I step out the same girl I was when I went in. I have friends, family, classes, a boyfriend. Not one knows the dark deeds I commit behind the bathroom door. None know of my blade of Relief.

I needed to cope with the life I live and hate. I'm not addicted to drugs or alcohol. But I am an addict. I am addicted to the things I do to myself. The control, the pain I welcome it and even treasure it. I'm addicted to my Crimson Tears.

Death is a constant companion following me, teasing me, trying to seduce me and pull me into her cold clutches. I won't go. She is an enchantress dressing up the easy things as the right things. I won't fall for her tricks.

But I won't stop crying. I won't stop summoning my Crimson tears, making red wine out of water with them, covering my hate with make up and clothes, hiding from my family, friends and all others I meet and know. My facade will hold and I will cope.

My dark secret, my bad habit, my addiction and painful obsession. I hide the evidence of my treatment. I plaster on a smile, practice faking happiness, rehearse laughter. No one can know because then they would make me stop and I can't cope any other way. Take this from me and I will have nothing. So I hide, I hide my scars, my tears, my feelings and thoughts. I lock them away and await the next time I shed more of my crimson tears.


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