He is a painter
That body is his canvas
The blood inside him is his paint
That blade he holds is his brush
He create paintings
With a flick of a hand
He slices his body open
Letting the red paint pour all over
Creating a beautiful mess
That only he would appreciate
As the red glistens
He feels relief as the numbness fades
She is a sculptor
Carving day and night
With expert fingers
She removes the imperfections
She create models
The perfect figure
Cutting off unneeded parts
Polishing the whole body
Creating an unbelievable figure
Something completely out of reach
She is perfectly happy
As she slowly fades away
They are artists
Making unimaginably beautiful things
And yet, they themselves are blinded
Blinded by pain, by beauty
The sensation, the feeling
Of being who you are
Or who you want to be
Is being free, at the same time, being trapped
They create artworks
From what they want to say
And who they really are
But no one notices
No one cares enough to ask
No one cares enough to appreciate
That they are artworks
Valuable artworks, not trash
