Words spilling onto a page as effortlessly as the blood that flowed from my thirteen year old wrists. My thoughts and ideas coming alive right in front of your eyes, as animated and full of life as my shattered heart was cold and dead.

Can I take a moment to paint you a picture of my sorrow? Thirteen years old with no one to turn to. I can feel the fear pumping through my veins, assaulting and filling my arteries with the hatred that I had come to know for so many years. The hatred that I had developed with every act of betrayal that you spit into my face. An overwhelming flow of emotion chokes and gags me, I cannot scream but if I could would you have even heard?

With innocent shaky hands I caress my blade ever so lovingly against the blue lines on my arms that are my source of life. A release so pure that you have to wonder how this could ever be wrong?

In that moment, I was free. As free as the thick red blood spilling from my skin.