You, Me and the In Between

An Artist I Be

My wrist is a canvas.

A blade my brush be

I paint, and paint, and paint

Until I no longer feel pain.

It seems like the bleeding won't stop,

At first.

With squares of gauze

And rolls of wrap,

I'll wrap my cuts

From sight.

They don't need to be seen,

Don't need to be spoken of.

I no longer care if you see them.

Why should I?

With "paint" dripping from my

Canvas,

I'll wrap it away to preserve it.

The real art will come later,

When marks crisscross my skin.

My wrist is a canvas,

A blade disguised as a brush,

I guess an artist I be.