"I'm dying", I say barely above a whisper.

Her voice hitches and I close my eyes.
I can't bear to see her response,
I know she'll probably tell me to keep fighting.
To keep trying...
But I can't.

It's been nearly two years since I found out.
Two years fighting for survival.
Two years realising I was my own rival.

"Don't say that", her voice breaks.
Her forehead rests against mine, as her hand roams the scars on my arms.

"I can't", my heart aches.
I tense my jaw, hoping to constrict myself from crying.
I swallow the sounds of my cracking heart and pull away.

I finally open my eyes and look anywhere but at her.
I see the birds flying and I hear them chirping,
The sun shinning so bright it contains a bright aura of happiness.
The ***** green grass dancing and moving with the beat of the wind.
Leaves shattering and making a harmonious sound.
I laugh to myself, considering how contradicting the mood between her and I is to nature.

"Please",she begs.
Her voice betrays her as it exposes her vulnerability.
Her whole demeanour dies,
Her knees buckling, holding on trying not to fall while her tears escape her effortlessly.

I shut my eyes,
Bite my lip,
Ball my hands to a fist,
Trying to hold in the pain,
Trying to hide the disease spreading within me.

"Okay, I'll fight it and I won't die", I look straight into her eyes.

"Promise?" She asks.

"Yea", I give her a faint smile.

I lied.

The World around me is my art form.
The people around me are my inspiration,
The pain surging and growing inside me is my strength,
But these hands...
They are the creators of what my heart fails to speak and what my soul craves to feel.

The World around me is my art form.
There's this girl, I should probably mention that she's beautiful.
Considering the idea that the first words that escaped my mouth when I saw her was "beautiful", oh and she's delightful too.
She rolled up her sleeve and showed me her perfectly smooth skin,
I was shocked, never have I ever seen such smooth, soft clear skin,
I could Look at mine and see the countless scars of drips they inserted in me.
I was mesmerised to say, but she laughed, "It's not always obvious", she cocked her head.
I watched her take off her blouse, removed her black vest and turned around, now I don't know what happened but as my eyes met her back, my voice hitched.
"Say something", she pleaded.

Scars, beautifully and perfectly traced on her smooth not so smooth mocha skin.
Exceptionally carved in a 'x' pattern,
Some scars fresh, with black and blue bruises, dried blood on some.
An intriguing colour of crimson red protruding from her skin,
Drawing an imagery of a crying back, weird but I saw that.
My hands began to itch, burning to touch her, to read her story.
Without much thought my hands began to read her,

Tracing each scar, noticing each pain that she had kept in.
Secrets pouring out and colouring themselves on to me.

"It's not always obvious", she whispers.

"It really isn't"