You are painting a picture,
So beautiful, yet marred.
Only your canvas is your skin,
And your brush is your blade,
And your paint is blood.
Red lines appear,
In this abstract painting,
Of your own creation.
You finally feel something,
The only thing you have felt,
In such a long time.
The feeling is pain,
So tremendous,
In ways both good and bad.
You cut one more line,
Before you allow yourself to stop.
The pain will leave you,
And will be missed,
Until the next time,
You decide to paint.
