The Contrast of Crimson

July 25, 2012
By Anonymous

Nineteen identical slices on paper-thin wrists, delicate demonstrations of sadness on see-through skin. Tears become trivial within the storm of the shower, rib-cracking sobs silenced under scalding streams of water. How scrumptious it is to see striking red drops swirl with colorless pools of water, crimson currents spiraling down the drain, forgotten in the framework of underground pipes. The smell of blood blends with soap-scented steam to produce the perfume of pain, the aroma of agony.

No matter how hard you scrub, steel wool on sensitive skin, the scent of sadness never fades.

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