Painting

Shattering heart,

Wounded soul.

How would she deal,

With all of this pain?

Wrists flowing red,

Mind screaming thoughts.

You’ve never heard a story,

Quiet like this.

She loved to draw,

And she loved to paint.

But, she used the wrong materials,

And it was all to late.

Her pen was a razor.

And her canvas,

Her wrist.

Her canvas was covered,

But she wasn’t finished yet.

Her canvas switched,

From her wrist to her thigh.

She wanted to keep drawing,

To show everyone her pain.

The drawings were getting deeper,

She was nearing the end.

She wanted someone to find her,

With her drawings on her skin.