Crimson, The colour that sets me free.

 
 
In this unholy life of mine,
Abused from the age of five,
Now I’m not alive,
I’m dead inside,
Ripped apart by feelings of self-loathing,
By feelings of guilt,
So much blood I have spilt,
Arms full of scars,
Scars left by the blade of a knife,
Is this my life?
A life full of fear?
And a life full of tears,
I talk to people but they do not listen,
But the blade on the knife it still glistens,
As I pull it slowly across my wrist,
Another scar added to the list,
Now my blood it runs free,
And as it falls to the ground it encircles me,
Keeping me safe,
Safe from the demons deep within,
Safe from all the suffering,
Its mental how cutting yourself can set you free,
Free from your own anonymity,
No more obscurity,
Ambiguity or uncertainty,
No more insecurity,
It’s my crimson blood that sets me free.