This Never Ending Painting

This canvas was clean at one point in time,

but I found my brush and started to stroke,

in straight fine lines.

The canvas became red and blotchy.

The canvas could never heal because I would come back everyday,

add more and more strokes, watch as the paint drips and falls.

This canvas happens to be my skin,

the brush a blade, cold and sharp,

calling my name,

the paint my blood, coming from the fine lines the blade makes in my skin.

Hiding from people,

keeping it a secret,

fear of what they would think,

too bad they already think so little of me.

But what if I stroked with too much power?

used too much paint at once? would anyone notice?

This canvas will never be clean again,

it may not be red and blotchy,

but white and bumpy.

However the canvas is still here,

there may be minimal hope, but take what's there,

and cling onto it,

it may be what keeps you alive.