Artist Poem by Aspen S.

I have always considered myself an artist,
just not the kind that uses paints or markers.
My canvas is different, for it is my skin.
You say it is horrifying, but I find it rather beautiful.

Every little mark, scar, cut, and scratch is homemade.
Not with love, but rather the sharp blade of hate.
I use it to carve away at myself, like a sculptor with clay.
I think what I make is beautiful.

You tell me I need help, that I am the selfish one, but when will you see?
This is my help, my therapy.
I am not selfish, so stop saying that I am!
This blade and I have a special relationship that you will never understand.
It makes me feel free, like I can finally be beautiful, if I only go a little deeper.

I go deeper, and deeper, that turns into harder, and harder.
I cut more and more, that my canvas is starting to fill up with my designs.
I keep going, on and on, I want to go until my canvas is falling apart.
I need to keep going until I can be beautiful too!

I won't stop, not until I am as beautiful as the butterfly blade I use!
I won't stop until I am bleeding all over and my canvas is finally covered!

I guess I am truly an artist after all.