My Body Is a Canvas, so Call Me a Masterpiece
I painted them with my soul, they tinted like sun burn.
They keep me up at nights but it's not that
I'm waiting for them to come home,
It's because they never leave me alone.
You may catch them streaks but they're not veins,
Yet they're a system under my skin, they keep me running.
It's been going on for years and I'm held a hostage.
Perhaps a Stockholm Syndrome—I've become addicted.
Intricate lines, drawn with precision and incision.
The ink chamber is empty and yet it hustles the same way.
I am painted with marks, a reminder of the wars
I never waged, but got out of to continue the struggle.
Acid drips through my tired spine.
What I necessitate is a deep slumber for days,
One I will go under and never will recover.
A desolate vessel, I might need a lover.
