15 January 2013
Scars remain as faded memories of a time where wrists where painted red and thoughts where painted black.
I am the artist of my own demise, a portrait of my life drawn onto my wrists in blood red.
The brush glides across the pale untouched canvas effortlesly as red coloured love runs down as a river of untold relief.
The portrait of my life, etched in straight lines along my wrists. The contours on a map of depression and anxiety. There is no begining and there is no end.
The portrait is never finished. Theres always room for more detail.
But why. I know that the paintings on my wrist are just a harsh reminder of the pain, the hurt of my past. An un-erasable scetch of demorilisation.
Glancing at the portrait of my anguish only brings more pain.
Painting a portrait on my wrists Relieved temporary pain. But prolonged my eternal agony. As just another reminder of what i was trying to forget.
Do not be the artist of your own demise. You are Loved. Put down the steel. Pick up the pen.
Do not follow my footsteps. Cherish all you have left.
~Larko
(Final quote from 'The amity affliction - chasing ghosts)
Thoughts Stained Red • Opuss № I