Random Thoughts🌙

Cuts

  Red ran down his arms as though it were rain washing away on the ground. Scars decorating skin with barely any part left bare. Blood was a constant companion even in the dark, lonely night. How close he had been to ending his life. Maybe if he'd used a bit more force he wouldn't have been able to wash away any wounds, it'd be too late.
Does anyone know of the mask he wears? Of the wounds he hides? Or the scars inside?
Would anyone care if they could see the crimson streaks lining his skin.
If they could take away the deadly silver which painted red.
An artist would use a paint brush and a canvas for his work but he used blades as his tools and skin as his canvas.
He had yet to see those who were affected from his actions. Those who cried in pain from his wounds. Would he ever? Would he ever realise what he was doing not only to himself but to those around him. Every scar was a reminder of when he felt alone, of when he felt let down. He didn't realise how each scar burned those who cared for him because they saw how they couldn't be there, how it was their fault his skin was tainted with marks.
Maybe if they were lucky, blessed enough, a time would come when their tears would wash away his wounds. When their pain would stop him from cutting. When he saw how much they cared for him. Maybe, this dream would come true...