The Diary of a Fallen Girl

harmful

With a silver pen, sharpened to a point,
I write out my stories in blood-red ink.
My words will scratch and smear,
And my lines come out messy,
But art to me isn't art to you,
And this is my body.

My pages tell tales of now and the past,
But none seem to last into the future.
Very rarely do they linger as I grow,
But my stories are frequent enough
That my reminders are many,
And so are my regrets.

One day, they will fade until they're invisible,
But my disappointment will not be gone,
And my sentences are not finished,
Yet my pen has run out of ink.
I'm not close to done yet,
And this is not finished.