As She Paints
She cries silently as she create another painting,
Her body is the canvas,
The bloody blade is the brush.
Though she tries, oh she tries,
She cannot escape her paintings.
Blood is the paint,
Cuts are the strokes.
Creating a beautiful portrait,
Of her pain and despair,
This downward spiral to her end.
As the paint pours down the canvas,
With hues of tan, red, and silver,
She longs for acceptance,
As her cuts throb.
Every day she wonders why no one notices,
Why no bothers to ask,
When they see the red in the sink.
She is glad, though.
This is her shame and her secret.
She can not escape,
It's the only time she feels alive.
It is the gateway to her fate;
No one will ever appreciate her work, however.
She hides her masterpieces under gloves and sleeves,
Hoping no one will acknowledge her talent for the blade.
She wishes someone would,
Sometimes in the dark of the night as red runs in rivers.
Though she tries, oh she tries,
She cannot escape her paintings.
There is no way out for her,
Her with her body as a canvas.
This trap is of her own making,
One she can't escape.