My skin is my canvas
But instead of paint
I use pain
Instead of a paintbrush
I use a blade

The pain of what they say to my face
One graceful stroke

The pain of what they say behind my back
Two graceful strokes

The pain of my own thoughts
Three less graceful strokes

The pain of my past
Four not so graceful strokes

The pain of how I scare people away  
Five ugly strokes

The pain of feeling alone, not in a crowd alone, just alone
Six disgusting strokes

The more pain I feel,
The more paint I leak
The more disgusted I become;
I now scare myself

But my blood still slowly trickles out
And just like paint, it can be washed away
Nothing too deep to leave a scar,
But deep enough to see my paint

To let the pain trickle out, with the paint
Until the pain starts again
And until I start painting, again