Canvas

It's sick how the image of my own blood makes me want to paint a picture. Put a canvas in front of me and let me draw you the image in my mind. If I cut deep enough, the blood will be dark enough to give you an idea of how blind or how confined I feel. Or maybe if I cut deep enough, the pain will actually make its way out this time. I'm walking with hands forward feeling for someone to hold me steady. I keep telling myself I'm not ready. The path forks and I can't see which way holds the light. Even when it's day, it still feels like night. Because the pain doesn't come with the moon, the pain stays in my mind. It's made a home in my skull and friends with my memories. But friends of my enemies are not friends of mine and my memories are getting worse with time. The new replacing the happy; the shadows falling over the light. There was a time in the past when everything seemed alright. And now I stay up at night wondering where I lost it all. My confidence - it must be lingering around in the spaces between time. And my sanity must be right along with it because I've done things I said I would never do. Like drink with the intention of drowning myself, cut just to know there's pain other than what I feel, or starve - hoping that I'd lose myself and do it for too long this time. But maybe I have to completely lose myself before I find myself again.