Crying Crimson Tears

When I was younger I was the epitome of sensitive. I was emotional, hell in any given day I cried three or four times.1

Then something happened. I grew up.2

I went from being basically a three year old who cries at the drop of a hat. To a person who couldn’t cry when her great grandmother died.3

You see, it’s almost like I can’t feel. Nothing seems to affect me. Nothing at all. Sometimes it’s like I am frozen, like I am watching everyone else live their lives, but I myself am frozen and cannot live.4

But the thing is, I do feel/ I feel everything. I see everything. I hear everything.5

And sometimes I just need to explode.6

When I was twelve I started crying in the rain. I would sit on the balcony at night while it rained and cry. Because during a rainstorm, the raindrops obscure the tears, allowing me to be strong, allowing me to hold on.7

But then it stopped working. I know am neurotic, hell I might even paranoid, but somehow I convinced myself that people could see me crying in the rain and big girls don't cry.8

So I waited. I lived in my silent hell for almost two years. Never betraying a true emotion. Never once feeling a real emotion. Never once telling the truth.9

And then one day I lost it, I completely and totally lost it, and in a fit of rage I stabbed my pencil into my thigh. It hurt like hell. 10

But at last I felt something. I finally felt something.11

At long last I felt the truth. Hell, I was the truth.12

And for the first time in so long, I didn't have to lie. I was able to just sit there and float gently on the ever flowing, ever growing crimson tide.13

And then a week later I accidentally cut myself shaving. And instead of stopping the blood I just watched it.  14

And for the first time in so long I felt real. Like all my pain and all my sorrow were validated. 15

I was thirteen when I first harmed myself. I was thirteen when I finally understood addiction. I was still a child when my slow suicide started. I was only thirteen, when I ascended into the deepest pit of hell.16

Only instead of weed or heroin my drug of choice was cutting. It really was an instant high. And it lasted for weeks over the mere hours of release offered by drugs and alcohol.17

I was barely thirteen when I cried my first crimson tears.18

I am fifteen now, almost sixteen, and I’m still cutting. Still crying my silent, crimson tears.19

Only the cuts grew. They matured quickly and in just two years grew from tiny scratches to three quarter inch scissor cuts on my right wrist to two inch long knife cuts on my arms and legs and hips. Cuts that bleed, sometimes, for days.20

And even though I know it scares people, and even though it took my boyfriend and my best friend away. It's always been there for me. It's always let me cry my crimson tears.21

So tonight, I am sitting in my room, well aware of the fact that a room like this implies great wealth, and even though I have a laptop, a cell phone, and a personal television set, despite the fact that as a "friend" once so delicately put it, I am loaded, "a cute smile and million bucks" as he put it "will get you anywhere."22

Anywhere except heaven. Because in spite of or maybe because of all this wealth I am lying here crying my crimson tears.23

You see my three favorite colors are black, red, and silver.24

Black for the shadows I hide in. Black for the spirits that took me in when God had forsaken me. Black for the eternal night that is to be my home.25

Red for all the blood I've shed. Red for the strength it takes to keep living even after you should be dead. Red for the color of my crimson tears.26

And silver for the best friend I've ever had. My knife. You see, my knife lets me cry. It lets me cry my crimson tears of pain and regret. It lets me feel all these wonderfully terrible things.27

So here I am, on the eve of my sixteenth birthday crying. Crying and hacking and carving and writing. Writing letters to you. To all of you who couldn't love me. To all of you who couldn't see me. To all of you who never knew me.28

And in my head, my drugged up, screwed up, pathetic mind which suffers through anti depressants and daily panic attacks, inside that hellhole of a mind, an innocent song plays. Like a nursery rhyme, like a lullaby, singing me to sleep one last time.29

And in tune with innocent, almost childish song I cry, and watch these crimson tears drip slowly down my scarred body.30

And so I sit here, crying crimson tears through my scarred flesh. I sit here, hearing the bittersweet melody that pulled me through so many bitter nights, crying the crimson tears that carried me through the fires of hell.31

I sit here as my life slowly fades, crying crimson tears of regret. 32

Regretting, as my life slowly bleeds away into a pool of crimson tears, regretting the fact that a knife was the best friend I ever had.33