A Taste of Cherry Red

I stare at the flame
My mind spiraling in self hatred
Their voices in my head
Screaming my name
There's no love there
My hand trembles, shaking
As I hold the sewing needle
Waiting for that color
That exact fucking color
The perfect temperature
There it is...
My hand steadies as I press it
Pressing hard against my flesh
I hiss a gasp of mental relief
The burning sensation
Makes their voices go quiet
The guilt falls onto me like ash
I've relapsed again... And again