She claimed to be

an artist.

She said

she painted a

pretty picture.

It wasn't until

four days later

I saw her lying

on the bathroom floor,

crimson red carvings

on her canvas.

Screams weren't

good enough,

tears weren't

powerful enough.

Help wasn't a

good enough

word.

Art, she said.

Whore, they said.

The word she thought

were art

were foul names

carved into

her pale

skin.