She used to write poems about slitting her wrists

About monsters that did but did not exist

About band aids and stained paper towels

About grubby toilet seats and empty bowels

And well, now

She regret the scars

Fishing line trails out of them

Transparent until noticed

Then tangled and messy

Catching on hot sweaters in the summer

On the eyes of friends

Of her grandparents

She found them to no longer be the uneven lines of art she loved

She'd stick to colored pens