random poems

Canvas

TW: self harm and suicide, please do not read if triggered by these topics.

As blade connects with the tender skin meant to be broken and ripped into sheds, she wonders. She wonders if this life full of self hatred and doubt was all worth it. Up to this moment in time, too many tears have been shed from the corners of her sleep deprived eyes that were now being replaced by trickles of rouge velvet dripping from the lines engraved into her wrists, and onto the floor it spills. A canvas of lines, symmetrical and woven into her skin with stitches of tender tissue that break again and again and again. They never heal or know what love is, all they experience and will continue to experience for the rest of their monotonous lives, is pain. The pain of recovering and lasting a while without having been cut into again to then realise that it's bleeding out. What could've been is now washed away by the turmoil of living. A tsunami, a ferocious wave of constantly thinking "Is my life worth more if I take it?" that drowns out all sane thoughts as sanity turns to insanity. Where every second glance and stare is perceived as judgement. For her, it is that they are judging her. For the way she talks, walks, eats, sleeps, breathes. Nothing is enough for them. No matter how hard she tries, it'll never be enough. No matter how hard she digs into the skin that she wishes to make art on, a beautiful painting of pain, it'll never be enough. So she stops carving marks onto a bruised canvas, and instead carves a permanent scar of death that will never be ripped open again. A gaping hole of black that seeps and drips off the delicate porcelain, now broken and scattered. Now her woes are no more; only art is left.