Canvas.

I am a canvas, blank and pure.
But every cut and every scar,
Is a stroke of pain that I endure,
A masterpiece of pain and despair.

With each slice, the colors bleed,
A palette of red and black,
A reflection of the inner need,
To fill the emptiness and lack.

But the canvas is not yet complete,
There’s still beauty tobe found,
A chance to paint a brighter feat,
And cover the scars with love profound.

So i’ll put down the blade and pick up the brush,
And create a canvas full of light,
A masterpiece of self-love and trust,
A work of art that shines so bright.