my skin is the canvas. i am the artist, and i paint in bold vivacious strokes of pain.

i am a map of my failures, drawn in an unsteady hand. a child with a felt- tip pen.

my pieces are dated by colour. here, in palest gossamer, is last years work. last seasons colour was soft satin pink. embossed everlasting memories

and here, splashed across my stomach, a cracked bleeding web of crazy, memoirs of last night