Yay for updates! I had to get this story going, but right now I'm not sure how it's going to get to where I want it to...
But I decided to give you guys a little something, something.
When I was younger, I was obsessed with balloons, especially red ones. I would love to blow them up and let them float to the top of my room, their strings dangling down and tickling my face. My room was filled with them; every inch of the white ceiling was covered with red. I would save up my allowance to go and buy a pack of red balloons and get them filled with helium at the local market. Every Sunday, after church, I would run over while my aunt and uncle were having coffee and cake with their friends after the sermon. They thought it was the strangest thing, but they figured if I wasn't hurting anyone and I was happy, they'd let me continue with the strange tradition.
I loved the way they looked as the sun was setting, they reminded me of freedom.
I wanted to be a balloon, I wanted to float above everything and just float as high as I could and just sit there, all pretty and red.
I grew less obsessed as the years went by, but till this day, I still buy red balloons every Sunday.
Red, I've always loved the color red. It's bold and obvious and represents things that are sensual and hot and dangerous. Something that I can never be, something that isn't me at all.
The cuts on my arms and legs, they're red. They're bright, angry, red, the kind of red that hurts so much, it soothes you.
Here, under my desk, when no one's around, I slip my hand under my sleeve and run my fingers along the rough jagged lines.
They make me feel better, they keep me calm when I'm in public and can't cut.
Like the balloons, I can never get enough red.
See, nothing too big, just promise me you'll stay around for the rest?
Love you!