My legs were your sketch pad.
my arms, my wrists, my skin.
You wrote all over me, in your beautiful hand.
As you whispered me promises, to make me queen of the land.
I watched as you filled me with colour, bright from head to toe,
my legs were your sketch pad, my arms, my wrists, my skin.
You would often draw pictures, your stories would flow across my body,
when you touched them they would sing, and remind us of our sin.
I used to be your sketch pad. You drew on me, to give me light.
But sometimes colours spill over.
and make a familiar,
sound, as that rainbow hits the ground.
because bad things can happen twice,
And you were bad.
And you, were a knife.
And I was your broken masterpiece, who slept in the dark.
A cloud of black scribbles, sad stories,
and scars that rhyme.
But don’t worry because scars,
they fade given the time.
And I’m sorry.
because I was your sketch pad.
But you, were a knife.
Who laughed, as you slit through my life.
Thank you so much for reading, This poem is about the relationship between somebody and their self harm. I hope you enjoyed it!
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