Poems

My Canvas Is My Wrist

I was confined to a small,
Small space.
A small piece of life.
A protected one.

Like a horse race gate,
I was opened to the world.
To everything.
Every last bit.

I was a happy kid.
My smile always bright.
Brighter than the sun.
But life ruined me.

I was doing fine,
Until you touched my wrist,
And I was lying in a puddle-
Of my own red paint.

I'm an artist.
The best of my kind.
My paintbrush is my razor,
And my canvas is my wrist.

~S.J. Chance