red canvas

Trigger Warning: This poem deals with themes of self-harm. Please read with care. -- my skin felt like a blank canvas every time they faded. i felt empty my urges unsatisfied. i had to give in; just one time, i told myself again. i marked the canvas angry veins of crimson swiped along the pale surface; each stroke with more intent than the last. the canvas wasn’t blank anymore; it was tainted by my own scars. i did this to myself. the weight of my own hands agreed. i panicked as i felt my arms sting, was this an artist’s masterpiece or a crime scene? i was always punished for such taboo actions, why did i keep trying to hide what was branded onto the canvas, always there, only able to be concealed. even as temperatures rose, my sleeves became my bandages, the summer sun never did see my arms.