Her arms are covered in ink,
doodles of barbaric things sprouting forth, like venus fly traps ready to pounce.
and words are branded on her arms like red scars.
Ink stains that scream hateful things

Not a single shred of skin is left untarnished
the ink is a cover up of her identity.
hiding her flesh with poisonous writing
the thoughts inside finally on show.

she covers her arms with long sleeve tops
to hide the hateful ink from the world
trying to keep some dignity of her own
yet still drawing childish hateful things on her arms

her face is blank, her eyes are emotionless
as she scrawls poetry and images on her arms till she draws blood.
she is just an emotionless zombie, an empty shell.
no longer existing in this world or belonging in it.

and thats how she'll always stay, forever here in body alone but never in mind or spirit. and always the unanswered question 'why do you do this to yourself?' floats around like an unrestful spirit.