Your Masterpiece.

Color me in crayon—

Red, yellow, purple, blue.

Engrave me with your hand.

Please, you really ought to.

 

Mark my wrists, arms, legs, hips

With the sick, twisted words,

That fall from your sweet lips.

 

Please, don’t stop marking me now.

Look at your pretty art,

Masking what I allow.

Here; have an early start.

 

Take my wrist, slice it deeper.

Please, hurt me more, harder.

Ahh yes, I can feel.

Now I am “real.”

 

Am I better today,

Since you stood by my side?

“Fixing me” just for play.

By you, my entirety died.

 

I must be so beautiful

Once your hand touched my skin.

Guiding my shaking hands’ pull,

Killing me from within.

 

Allowing your words to sting,

With each time the blade hit.

To feel anything,

But the pain you admit.

 

Color me pretty, please.

Mold me into your needs.

Set my sharp pain at ease.

Pick from me my blithe weeds.

 

A sweet flower I’ll be,

All thanks to your good deed.

Destroying the happy,

Demanding that I bleed

 

My sweet, undying love,

Through the slits in my thigh.

Am I now, worthy of

More than a cheap good-bye?

 

Won’t this crayon wash away

With some soap or water?

I don’t want it to stay.

There you stand, unaltered.

 

My skin is raw with blood

From your longing desire,

To bloom this flower bud,

To mold, to rewire.

 

So take this red crayon,

And drag it down my body.

Color the scars, go on.

Now look at me—pure beauty.

Words.

The words flow from my pen,

But stumble from my lips.

What’s the simplicity of writing on paper?

But in real life, I need a million scripts.

The thoughts overflow my brain;

They drive me insane.

But the words don’t come easily.

They don’t come much, nor ceaselessly.

At least I have this paper and pen,

So I’ll use it as my escape, again and again.