Sweet Sorrow
It was one of those nights,
Nights where I look at my blood stained blades
And observe the art of life that I've sculpted on my body.
As i look into the mirror
I think of how beautiful all of this is -
The pain, the scars, the dripping scarlet on my arms.
Each mark is a part of my identity:
If not for this, what defines me?
These are not scars, but the records of my past and present.
But I'm afraid these slits on my limbs
Only cause censure
Rather than acknowledgement
Of the art that I've created.
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