She sits on the bed feeling
the consequences of the things she's said and thought.
Thinking of the blood she has drawn
and of all the self-inflicted scars.
Scars of the mind and body.
Scars of memories and wishes.

She looks at these scars and wishes
that all the broken things she's feeling
could heal like her body.
Again, she is lost in thought
about the horrible, beautiful scars
that she has so skillfully drawn.

She thinks of the red fountains she has drawn
and of all the broken wishes
depicted by all these breaking scars.
She ponders over everything she's feeling
and with the blade transmits her thoughts
onto her tattered canvas of a body.

Once finished, she surveys her body
stained with the red fountains she has drawn
and marked now with the force of their thoughts.
Then she stops and deeply wishes
that she hadn't given in, and feeling
miserable, yet in utter control, she fondly caresses her scars.

Suddenly she becomes angry that these scars
and further punishes her body.
Then she sits still, lost in the feeling
of the intense pain she has drawn.
Sitting there crying, she wishes
so many impossible things, sitting alone, lost in thought.

Then she snaps and loses this thought.
She looks down at her scars
and knows she shouldn't have; she wishes
she could stop doing this to her body,
but she knows that tomorrow she'll be irresistibly drawn
to her favorite painful blissful feeling.

Feeling alone, she sits like a torn canvas of thought,
drawn by her horrible, beautiful scars,
body pulsating furiously with broken wishes.