Marker stains like bloodied knuckles
Red ink blooming on purple skin
False pain, seen but not felt
Beautiful, twisted
I wanted to feel it.

Those stray marks were so inconsequential,
But they captivated me
For the rest of the day.
They were so beautiful, and they looked real.
I wanted them to be real.

The tip of the pen dragged
Across a pale canvas
And constellations of angry red scratches.
My fingers dug into soft flesh
Nails sharp, skin dry.
That pain I felt.
That pain I controlled.

(I never made myself bleed
Part of me was proud
But a small part of me,
The part fascinated by the beauty of a broken body
Wanted to see blood,
My blood,
Beading on a pale canvas.)

A mess of bruises
Sprawling the territory of my right wrist,
Born of the moments
I hated myself most.
Flashes of anger birthed
A pain I felt.
A pain I controlled.

I still remember the days
When the scars on my skin
Could be erased.
When I painted my body with false wounds
Haphazard and messily beautiful
Like a classroom art project began at three AM.

Like pastels smeared beyond recognition,
I did not see myself
In the curves of my wrists
In the folds of my skin
In the ***** of my neck
Or in the line of my back.

I did not see myself
In the kid who cried easily
Who broke easily
Who crumbled at a raised voice
Who felt the very things they hated.

I did not see myself
In the anger
Or the hatred
Or the lies.

So I took the false pain,
The classroom art project of my body
The watercolor bruises
And the marker-ink scrapes
And I made them real.

I did not see myself
So I took my beautiful art project
My creativity, my life's work
And I blinded myself with pain
So I could not see at all.