She paints her hips the color of her blood
the way she paints the water light blues and greens.
Except the cuts on her skin aren’t beautiful
not like the trees and branches in the painting for her sister.
That razor hitting her skin and spilling her blood
it’s far different from her paintbrush hitting the canvas and spilling paint.

She etches her skin with this blade
the way he etched his lungs with smoke.
One is visible to the eye if only they look
The other is hidden and can’t be seen.
Both are deadly
but one of them stopped and the other has not.

The numbness takes over leaving her cold
She lays on the bed staring at the ceiling feeling nothing.
The girl hates it so she grabs that blade and finds a new spot to cut.
She winces as the blood begins to drip down her hip
and feelings begin to form in her chest again.
The feeling may be pain,
but to her anything is better than nothing.

The girl knows she needs to stop
she knows that on her hips
there are no beautiful pictures in blues and greens
but tragic stories written in nothing but blood.
The tale of a girl who would rather live in pain
than die in numbness.