Looking at the object in her hands,

Her silver reflection stared back at her.

She closed her eyes,

Feeling the pain.

Vertical lines had formed over her horizontal limbs.

She gazed back at a new reflection,

Once was silver now is red.

Her skin once smooth and pale white,

Now like slim speed bumps and painted red.

She’s an artist,

Her inspiration is her pain,

Her brush is her blade,

Her canvas is her skin,

Her paint is her blood.

Her masterpieces are never seen,

But are always felt.