They call her the artist
Not because she’s in the art room day after day
But because her body is her canvas
And her blades are the deadly paintbrushes
Her easel is a mirror
Her mistakes hit the shower tiles
In a methodical and predictable drip
Her paintings are not clean
White tiles stained red,
Silver blade meets blue vein meets crimson pain
Her masterpieces are aggravated lines of flesh
Lines on her hips but the word ‘***’ on parted lips
Translucent tears on flushed cheeks,
The desire to be numb overpowering everything
Eyes fluttering closed as the water stings the wounds
Her cuts forming a maze to get lost in
She wanted her life to be like Starry Night
As compared to The Scream
‘An artist is an artist is an artist’
She murmurs
As the blade falls from her hands