13 November 2012
She paints a pretty picture But this story has a twist Her paint brush is a razor The canvas is her wrists.
She paints her favourite colour, A dark enticing red, A line across the centre Then diagonal instead.
She draws one line then another, Different sizes different lengths, All lines a different meaning, A symbol of her strength.
She hides away her painting, For fear someone might judge, But they will be there forever- The scars will never budge.
The Wrist Artist • Opuss № I