This is for the artists, the ones who draw. The ones whose drawings are of a different kind. The ones whose drawings cannot be undone with an eraser. The ones who draw on a canvas that can never be discarded. The ones who draw without paper and pen.
You are so artistic, especially on pitch dark nights, in isolation. You draw even when your canvas runs out of space. You draw with the ink of depression, misery and vitriol. You draw on the canvas of your wrist and the pen of a blade.
You draw so much, but you never show your drawings off to the world. You conceal them under bandages and long sleeved shirts. You wait for them to fade away, get erased by the sands of time. Your drawings will never be properly erased. Your pen shall leave marks that will haunt you persistently, not letting you forget that you ever drew.
Please, please refrain from having this as your cathartic measure. Your wrist shouldn't be your canvas. Your blood shouldn't be your ink. A blade shouldn't be your pen. Please don't let those drops of crimson melancholy flow down your wrist, leaving you with agony as it escapes, because unlike your drawings, you're beautiful. :)
Story