A boy knew a girl who liked to draw.
She drew pictures that nobody saw.
She was most artistic at night, in her bathroom, out of sight.
She didn't tell a soul and her gallery grew.
Her drawings were different, no pencil or pen.
But needed a bandage now and then.
He thought, why of all people, did it have to be her?
To suffer in this cruel world.
And one night they stood by a river under the stars.
She rolled up her sleeve and showed him her scars.
She felt so broken and embarressed and looked at her shoe.
He rolled up his sleeves and whispered,
"I draw too."
