poem about self-harm

beautiful portrait

She paints pretty pictures,

But there is a twist,

The paintbrush is a razor,

And the canvas is her wrist.

She sees the scars she leaves behind,

And she tells herself it’ll be alright.

Every day, a new skill she learns,

To cope with life’s endless demands.

She throws away the razor and the blades,

Never to pick them up ever again.

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