Notes

Canvas (Oct 4)

(content may be triggering)

There's an artist dwelling in these walls.
Her whole life she's been working on a single masterpiece.
Draw, erase, redraw, over again and again.
Underneath the countless layers, you might be able to distinguish the slightest remaining traces of the word "FAT"
It never really faded, but new patterns and words were added over because she fears that if anyone ever saw they'd think she was stupid for believing something many told her was a lie.
But it's hard to explain that her closest family had been the ones to put that there.
That losing the only one who'd ever made her feel beautiful had only confirmed that the compliments had been empty lies.
So she wears the branding of a tattoo from invisible ink to remind herself to accept the fact that she won't ever be good enough.
By now her wrist's so carved up that if anyone were to look at it they wouldn't be able to see a single scar.
It's like a well shaded sketch, neatly filled in with crosshatching lines until they all blend together into a smooth canvas of shades.
For her cuts were often and many and unlike a proud artist she hid her work well but had little place to hide it, so she kept it small and reused the same canvas over and over,
Hardly letting the paint dry before adding on a layer of the next.
Because this art was her escape when the paper had been ripped away from her and all her pencils had been snapped in half.
They wouldn't let her draw because they didn't want to see her soul and admit who she was, so they took away her pencils and she resorted to carving.
Except she wasn't handy with a knife and too many nights she would collapse with a sob in the back of her throat, not a noise escaping her pale lips as they mouthed "this is one thing you can never take from me"
And her fingers curled around the hilt of a jagged blade whose uneven surface often glided purposefully slow in hopes of ripping out her torments along with some flesh.
Most nights she went by the thought that if she caused herself enough pain, it'd drown out the agony she felt inside, like a flood covering a stream.
But to her despair the stream was an ocean and no flood of pain could overcome that which she already felt.