Crimson Promises

Jan 30, 2025

I tell myself I want to stop. That I should stop.

But deep down, I know the truth-I don't really want to. Because the pain is the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that feels right.

I try to hide the marks, but not too well. A sleeve pulled up just a little too high, a bandage placed where someone might notice.

I catch myself hoping-praying-that someone will see. That they'll stop me, grab my wrist, look me in the eye, and ask if I’m really okay. Not in the way people do when they don't really want an answer, but like they actually care.

But no one ever does. They glance, hesitate, and look away, pretending they didn't see. Maybe they don't want to know, or maybe they think I want to be left alone. And maybe I do.

Maybe I don't even know what I want anymore.

All I know is, that blade is always there. It never looks away. Never hesitates. It listens when no one else does, speaks in the only language I understand. It doesn’t shame me. It heals, while ripping me apart. The pain, the blood-it's the closest thing to comfort I have. A ritual. A sadistic lover. A necessity. A sick, twisted kind of salvation. It's easier to pretend I'm fine, to let me drown in my own silence. To let me carve myself into something I have full control of.

I say I want to stop, but it's a lie. I don't want to stop. I don't know how to live without this. The pain is the only thing that feels real, the only thing I can control in a life that's been spiraling for as long as I can remember. The world is gray, lifeless, empty-but the moment the blade caresses my skin, there's color. There's clarity. There's a rush that drowns out everything else, if only for a moment.

And the blood... God, the blood. It pools, it drips, it stains, and I can't look away. It's beautiful, and dare I say, seducing, in the sickest way possible. Proof that there's something inside me, even when I feel so hollow, I swear l'm nothing more than a shell.

I tell myself I don't need anyone. That I don't need help. That this is mine, my pain, my addiction, my escape. But sometimes, in the darkest moments, I wonder what it would feel like to be saved. To have someone look at me and really see me, to hold onto me so tightly I couldn't slip through the cracks.

But no one ever does.

And maybe they never will.

But what if-what if I could stop? What if I could find something else? Something stronger than this need, more permanent than fleeting pain?

I don't know.

But I think I want to find out.