Her Work

she was an artist
but with a dark twist
her paintbrush was a razor
and her canvas was her wrist
she would paint every day
just to make it throughout the day
it was like her secret getaway
from the pain she felt inside

the beautiful scars left on her
started to torture her
the pride she once felt for her work
turned into shame and pain

she looked at her arms and thighs
and couldn't help but to cry
how could her secret happiness
make her feel like this?

now she is left with her work
it can never be removed or undone
she has became afraid
of what she has become