Sol & Luna [ o.h/u.c. ]

luna ; 4

I'm an artist, but not the kind you know.

My paintbrush is a small, silver blade and my arms are the canvas. The only color I know is red, a crimson kind of red.

Every stroke is painful, but it makes me feel alive. It creates a ripple in the river of numbness and I crave the way it tells me that I'm still breathing, I'm still standing, I'm still fighting.

Fighting for what?

For a future that is clouded with uncertainty? For a life devoid of the ghosts of a terrible past?

For him?

I cover my masterpieces with the sleeves of my sweater, so no one can know that I am an artist. They won't understand the abstract art that I've created on my wrists. My friends, who take off their masks and stab me when I turn my back on them, ask why I cover my arms. I don't tell them about my artworks because I'm afraid they'd mock and degrade me like they always do.

If he knew about my art, he would understand me. He always understood me.

Maybe, maybe if I wait long enough, he would come.