You take a picture,
Of something you had,
Something you loved,
Something you cherished,
With all of your heart.

You take that picture,
The thing you needed,
Which left your side,
The thing which left you,
Alone to cry.

Inscribed within memory,
Lives within thoughts,
You take that picture,
You draw it on,
And as the red trickle,
You can see what you have done.

It's merely a game,
You play upon yourself,
It's just a picture,
No real harm.

It's just a way,
To silently scream,
Help me know,
Help me please.

It's just a memory,
Written into skin,
Release the thoughts,
And what's within.

It's only a picture,
A meaningless clue,
Why don't you help me?
When I helped you?

But it's just a picture,
A memory of pain,
A way to release,
Again and again.

It is an end,
Without a start,
But it's only a picture,
It's just body art.

By Siobhan