The Starving Artist

The jarring reality of the starving artist
Is a self-portrait best painted
On an over-stretched canvas,
With thick acrylics housed
In old mustard jars cracked at the neck. 

She props her painting
Against an old table leg
Made of knotty oak and
Hunches over it for hours. 
Her stringy hair, flecked with oils
Kept in fractured egg cups,
Hangs down her arched back
When she stretches. 

And while she pauses,
Within the paint brush
She clutches close to her chest,
Impulse and doubt duel to kill,
Fighting for her mind. 
Who will win?  At what cost? 

In her picture, she is bleeding. 
Will she use her own blood
To paint the scene?