A Dirty Canvas—

About how self-harm, survival, and the violence of being perceived for doing so.

"It burns."

That’s all I can think of
as I stand under the scorching sun—
a smile on my face,
an ache in my chest.

My full-sleeved sweater
makes it impossible to turn heads
from the curious stares.
"Why are you wearing that? Isn’t it hot?"
A question heard multiple times.

"I’m fine,"
I answer, like a broken vinyl record
where the needle is stuck on a scratch—
a smile small,
a voice smaller.

My full-sleeved sweater hides
the scratched skin dying to breathe.
The summer air suffocates,
but not as much as their eyes—
judgment sharp as the whispers:
"Attention seeker."

A fake smile on my lips
as I brush their comments
about my novelty.

Pick on it. Hurt it. Scar it. Let it bleed.

The thoughts weep out of my skin
in crimson whispers.

Why did I do it?
I hate myself.
It hurts.
I’m tired.

The thoughts that cloud my brain
like a dull ache,
where the red runs thin.

How do I make one understand
that I need to do this?
To pick at my skin
when it gets suffocating to breathe
without the smell of blood.

The immediate contentment—
I am hurting myself.
But disgrace flows like blood,
cages my heart.

"Perhaps a skin condition?"

Pointed out by everyone
who sees the dirty canvas of my body.
But my heart jumps out of its cage,
beating wildly against my lungs.

The world blurs
into their paused silence,
and my pupils miosis like my voice
as I wait for their hoax reply.

"You need to take care of yourself,"
they say ingenuously,
but my heart—
oh, my heart—
shatters into a laugh
at how neatly they dress their disgust
in paper-thin concern.

Maybe this dirty canvas
was always supposed to be covered.
Because she knew
if the world saw her,
they would never appreciate her—
only scrutinize,
and make her bleed again
with their words
and impeccable stares.

Maybe this dirty canvas
felt safe under the covers
of her full-sleeved sweater.

Because survival is seen as a flaw
that needs to be corrected
and polished.

The skin that bled
needs to be smoother,
because it refused to die politely
for the world.

So she hides herself
in full-sleeved sweaters,
to escape their patronizing sympathy.

Because the dirty canvas
was never meant for daylight—
only for the quiet dark,
where the dirty canvas
may one day,
outlive the artist’s regret.