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.