Blood

Red

Painful

Release.

Do you need it?

She thinks not.

The release is key, she tells me.

It lets her be free.

No.

What are you holding

With such burden?

Is it…

Anger?

Frustration?

Shame?

Or is it an addiction?

Does it make you feel better to hurt someone?

To hurt yourself?

To release the vital fluid that keeps you alive?

Why do you play with death?

She says she doesn’t want to hurt us.

Then why does my heart tear with every little scar on her arms?

Her legs,

Her chest.

They’re scarred.

And abused.

By herself.

She leaves us nothing whole to build from.

Us, her friends.

The ones who care.

Come, talk to us.

We know you’re hurting.

You’re slipping.

The red gashes hold no friction.

Only pain.

And regret.

And hurt.

Come, talk to us.

Yell at us until your lungs grow dry and weak.

Scream at us until the agony has released itself.

But, please…

If you care,

As we know you do,

Stop hurting yourself.

Put the blade down.

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