Along my Ivory skin, the drops of cerise spreads - delicate tendrils forming beyond each space,
Words of hate marr my sheet as I press the object drawing blood.
With each laceration forming on pearl, a small tear escapes my eyes. The pain is too much yet I have to bear it to show that I'm alive. And I form the scarlett words on my pale canvas as I cry. My frame spreads with stone, a newly formed statue, as I watch the Crimson ink spreading. As it grows larger, black spots form and visions become blurred. The reality and memories merge as one and I form more words with my pen.
horrible
worthless
liar
ugly
And as I hear each voice screaming in my head, my hands rush as cuts become deeper. A whole sonnet of hate drowns my heart and fresh salt tears are created. Lines tear at sheets, jagged curls are formed. And with an anchor at each eye I look down on what I have made. And my tool of blood, my ebony pen silently replaces the steel knife I had.
And a small smile is shone as I raise my new creation.
A paper full of cuts.
For me writing poetry is like cutting. Except writing poetry is a relief