It Might Have Been

Red

Red. Dark red. Crimson I suppose. The sight of my own blood scares me, but it never stops me. Nothing does. There's nothing poetic about what I do. There's nothing brave or heroic.
I will admit there's something morbidly romantic about his name being forever engraved in my skin. However, it makes me want to take a lighter to the area sometimes. Just watch my flesh bubble and peel off. The smell of burning skin.
Normal people fantasize about a beautiful house, a happy family. Me, ending myself in the most dramatically horrific way. But for now, it's just blood. Blood that drips off my arms and splatters on the floor below me. God I fucking hate it. But I won't stop. A sick part of me doesn't want to.
I hate myself. Because of what I've done. Because of what he's done to me.
I take it out on myself, because he's not here to do it. I was used to doing everything wrong. Now that no one is here to punish me, I do it myself.
Holding the cold metal to my neck makes me anxious. Just one slip and it would be over. Pressing the blade into my throat makes me smile. Feeling the warm blood trickle down my neck, chest, and stain my shirt makes me feel alive. Blood mixing with tears.
I'm not completely oblivious to the fact that I'm sick. I just refuse to seek help. I don't want it. I'm perfectly content in what I'm doing and don't want to be stopped.
The sight of the small pool of red at my feet makes me nauseous, but it doesn't tear the smirk from my lips. Look what you've done.