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m o Dec 2016
"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,

a hold a pencil in my healing, tranquil hand,

and begin to draw, with possibilities unplanned.

**- m.o

— The End —