They trace my sorrow in ink and flame, A needle hums out my hidden shame. Each line a confession, each color a sin, Bleeding the hurt from the surface within. The roses bloom where the bruises fade, Thorns like the choices I shouldn’t have made. The serpent coils on a porcelain thigh, Whispering truths that I swore were a lie. I trade my ache for the sting of art, A palette of pain pressed over my heart. Better the burn than the silence and tears, I wear my memories where they can’t fade for years. So darling, just etch me in violet and black; Each needle a promise I won’t take it back. For under this canvas of scarlet and grace, Is a girl who survived by adorning her ache.