I once knew a girl.
Who made scenarios of her getting shot.
She said she hated pain,
So she created worse in her mind's knots.

She said she liked running away from it,
She did so by materialising it,
Knitting it in places where eyes didnt travel
Just her mind did,
Where her own blade was her first battle.

She said she liked being in control,
She knew the worst she'd go.
As she looks down
on her blood stained shirts,
She didn't shed the tears she owed.
Afterall t'was only after she used up
All her blue,
That she painted her screams with red,
In a language she wished someone knew.

But the canvas never flinched,
At the crimson it took.
It just became an attention catching piece,
Everyone sympathized
but never understood.

She wore her art like armour,
But she felt empty behind it.
For she shared herself as characters,
Her words heard, yet left unsaid.

She wrote down the smiles she stole.
Her tiles were still stained red,
As she printed stories
That made her bleed out
on the bathroom floor.