If our lives were captured in paintings,

each moment recorded in brush strokes

I would collect all of my

history into a warehouse,

set it on fire

and dance in the pyre's flames-

until everything

turned to ash.

Press it down against the skin,
just enough to make a crease;
sharp side down.

Pull it back
smooth and perfect,
exchange this pain
for one that's eloquent,
warm, and sharp around the edges.

Tracing the blood inside my veins-
with red lines
carved across my wrist.
Another scar,
flowing red and honest.

With each stroke
I etch this strange relief,
Admiring the red and silver swirls
that make the masterpiece,
and drown the sorrow
that brought steel and flesh together
into this unholy union.

The sweet taste of torture,
sharp side down.