Orange is for self-harm.
I had been having this problem since I was thirteen, so two years at that point. It had started with an experimental scratch with a pair of scissors that hadn't even broken skin, then I was breaking open disposable razors and pencil sharpeners, and then stealing utility knives from the tool box my dad had in the shed. The cuts had grown deeper and deeper, me needing more and more pain to feel anything at all.
See, I had grown completely numb inside. All the sadness and darkness in me had eaten away at so much I couldn't even feel them anymore, let alone anything resembling happiness or love. The only thing I had found that could break through the shell was the feel of metal slicing skin, of blood dripping down my arms, of agony coursing through my body as I cut again and again going deeper each time.
I thought of this as I stood in my bedroom slicing away at pale flesh, tears I refused to shed except in this dark room alone dripping down my cheeks. I wanted to stop, wanted to stop hurting like this, wanted to stop having to cover up with long sleeves and jeans and wristbands, wanted to not be afraid every time someone came in his room that they would find this magic little blade, but I couldn't. I couldn't stop, it felt far too good, far too freeing. I would stop one day, I promised myself. Just not today.