"this isn't art." they said, they didn't understand
i cry as crimson paint drips from the blade in my hand
yet maybe they are right, i begin to think
the skin on my wrists turns from red to pink
i hold a pencil in my healing, tranquil hand
and begin to draw, with possibilities unplanned.
![](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/106012874-288-k334264.jpg)
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bittersweet » poetry
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