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.