Pictures sketched on her wrist.
Lifeless, dull, only red.
Numbing pain, blades assist.
Coloring art while she bled.

She hid her pictures with her sleeves.
As if she was ashamed of her work.
Harsh critique she receives.
When perfection begins to lurk.

Her parents showed no concern.

She continued sketching with her blade.
Her heart slowly began to burn.
Unlike her art, she would slowly fade.

Hidden feelings kept in private jars.
Lying, bleeding on her bed.
Artwork covered her in scars.
Lifeless, dull, she is dead.

( I know it's kind of depressing, I'm just better at that.. This is my first ever A, B, A, B poem... I'm 13 and this is the 4th poem I've ever written.)