She thought the red was beautiful.
As it slipped down her skin, standing out in
sharp contrast on her pale arm, she watched it, transfixed.
She was an artist, her knife was her brush,
and she painted haunting lines on her fair skin.
Once upon a time, there had been pain, and she had been glad,
because it was better than nothing. But now that was
gone, too. A shame, really.
The house around her was still and empty, standing silent testament
to her nightly doings. She didn't care. Watching the blood, it made
her feel alive. She was paying for her life of worthlessness, but
it didn't seem enough.
Self mutilation; is another form, of hating yourself.
Author notes
Well, this is probably my best poem. This is what was running through my head, when i was a cutter. That I was an artist, my body my canvas, the knife my brush. How, after a while the pain stopped; and it became like a hobby, feeling nothing; my wrists becoming immune to the pain it brought to me. I've stopped now, seeing no point in what I was actually doing to myself. I hope you like it(:
Comments
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I liked it. It gave me a visual and keep it up. How ever you should reconsider the structure.
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