As She Paints

As She Paints

She cries silently as she create another painting,
Her body is the canvas,
The bloody blade is the brush.
Blood is the paint, Cuts are the strokes.
Creating a beautiful portrait,
Of her pain and despair.
As the paint pours down the canvas,
With hues of tan, red, and silver,
Immense feelings of hurt, betrayal, and the longing for acceptance are portrayed.
It is the gateway to her fate;
No one will ever appreciate her work, however.
She hides her masterpieces under gloves and sleeves,
Hoping no one will acknowledge her talent for the blade.
Though she tries, oh she tries,
She cannot escape her paintings.
There is no way out for her,
Her with her body as a canvas.