Skin Vs Paper, By Leila Poem by leila morris

i treat my skin like paper.
i am the artist and the blade as the pen.
the lines are planned out and even.
but soon the lines turn to red
the red drips down my arm onto my bed.
i want to stop this constant hurt
to stop the voices in my head
for them to never speak again.
i want to stop cutting up my skin like paper.
but i cant quit.
each line, each cut. i am a step closer to dying, a step closer to finishing my artwork.
but once i'm finished,
as time goes by the artwork fades into a thin white line.
now i start over.
now a new slate, a new piece of paper.
and when the lines heal; i will trace with the color blue, remembering the story past the line too.