They furiously burn under the shower and play hide and seek every second; every hour. Their favourite colour is crimson but they prefer blood red, and they'll remain there - even when you're dead. They love dancing under the bracelets on your wrist, and are comfortably soothed by my icy most. You're probably thinking, this poem is amazing and relatively calm, not knowing the message of the poem is stop glamorising self-harm.
