She’s an Artist


She's an artist.
Her paint is blood.
Her canvas is her wrists.
Her brush is her blade.
Her picture is sad.
It's unusual.
Yet there's something about it.
It' beautiful.
Her art is different.
It's hidden.
Under her sleeves, not meant to be seen.
Still it is displayed anyway.
When it is seen most turn away.
From the scars.
But few may see the art,
see the picture.
The picture her soul can't take.
Her soul.
It's dead.
Or so says the gun to her head.

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