Crimson Lines

scratching across the surface of my skin
this blade feels like hell
like heaven
again and again
tracing the lines of red
by its increasing thickness and depth
a row of crimson
line after line
all in a perfect set and length
one, two, three, four, five
what a perfect number
for perfect pain
breaking order one of them
overspills its ranks and
floods the next one down
a cascade of disorder and chaos ensues
I can but watch
unsure of what will happen next
so enrapt am I that
I hardly notice my blade has
dropped with a clatter
to the tiles below
watching as my very life’s essence
flows steadily and surely down
ever down
a type of rapture fills my soul
agony and pain and pure joy
see how steady my hand was!
barely did I tremble or flinch!
I hate myself
who does this?
drip drip … drip
rose-colored drops
trail down my fingertips and
release their hold
one by one
what is this on my cheeks?
Judas! Judas!
let me have this!
for once!
disgusted by my own duplicity
I gaze about myself
what a waste
what a big, fucking waste
disloyal, deceitful, fraudulent bitch
worthless, unwanted, unneeded
the moment has passed
the bliss all gone
replaced by anger and loathing and
pathetic tears of sadness
walking out I turn off the light
head hung in shame once again
I cross the hall and collapse
hands covering my face
shoulders wracked by violent sobs
smeared with blood and tears
until sleep embraces
my tormented mind once again

©️tara caribou – 2017

One thought on “Crimson Lines

  1. Yeah. I know. This is a reality for me, not just flowery words. But like so many others, I write as a form of therapy. I also write because if my words can impact and make a difference in even one person’s life, then I am content; I have made a difference. Writing about suicidal thoughts, grief, loss, and self-harm are touchy, painful subjects that don’t make anyone comfortable but it needs to be said. I’m willing to say them. I’m willing to talk about them because they are my reality.

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