This canvas so pale,
is so frail and so jailed,
inside a mind that screams
and wails.

The canvas is perfect,
besides old scars,
that I choose to reopen
and enjoy the stars;

that I feel in my head
when the canvas turns red,
such a stark contrast
between living and dead.

I don't know why I can't stop slicing,
I need the rush to feel okay.
I don't know why the rush keeps climbing,
I need it more every day.

*Shining scarlet kisses...
who am I to keep them away?