I once knew a
boy who liked
to draw. Beautiful
pictures that nobody
saw. He drew by
himself alone at
night. Locked in his bedroom
out of sight. The pictures
were strange. They came with
a twist. His pen was a razor
his canvas was his wrist.
We lay out at night, watching
the stars. When he lifted
his sleeve and showed me
his scars. I wasnt shocked
i knew what to do. I rolled
up my sleeve and said
"I draw too"
