​Naked on the bathroom floor, 

I’m surrounded by every color sharpie I own. 

Originally purchased in high school for a craft project. 

I remember feeling guilty about spending $23 to have all 18 colors, 

But I was desperate, even back then, for my world to be more colorful. 

 

I pick up a green sharpie and write “psycho” on my thigh.

With a purple one, I write, “absolutely worthless”.

A pink one - “I hate myself”. 

 

One-by-one I use all 18 colors to cover my limbs, 

Word by tortured word, 

In all the horrible thoughts bubbling through my mind today,

Desperate to feel maybe like it’s not all in my head. 

 

In grey I write… “Kill yourself.” 

The orange sharpie shakes as down my shins I write, “who even cares?”

“No one will save you,”

In aqua waves of cursive. 

On one foot I write, 

“I don’t want to be here.” 

On the other - “RUN.” 

As if I have anywhere to go. 

 

“Fuck everything.” in bright red. 

“I hate myself.” in lavender.

“I hate everyone.” in lime green. 

 

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“I want to die.”

“Please.”  

 

On my ribs I write, 

“I can’t breathe.”

“Whore” - on my hips. 

“S-L-U-T” in black across my chest. 

 

On my wrist I confirm, 

“This is a cry for help.” 

In case anyone would ever see me like this, 

And have any doubts. 

I add a dashed line down my forearm as if to say cut here.

 

I decorate my body, 

The bright colors clashing with each other, 

And I realize I am no longer these thoughts. 

Covered in hatred and self pity, 

I am exhausted of phrases to show my despair, 

My mind is finally at peace. 

 

Earlier I had imagined a lifeless body would be my last art project. 

That I would slice open the dashed line, 

And hope someone understood that I had to do it. 

A colorful, gruesome finale for an unfulfilled artist’s life.

But a guilty $23 on craft supplies saved me,

By making a few hours more bearable. 

 

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I stood up, 

Looked at myself in the mirror, 

And cried for all cruelty that I show myself, 

And all of the places in the world that it comes from, 

Before it nested in my head.  

 

Inside me these insults felt so true, 

Especially the more they echoed, 

But externalized on my skin I can see that they are such a small part of who I am.

 

With relief, I cried.  

As I cried, I showered, 

Scrubbing these thoughts from my skin, 

These words finally feel temporary, 

Even in permanent marker they’ll wash off my skin, 

So much faster than they’ve washed off my sensitive heart. 

 

I realize once again,

It is creativity, not violence, that will save us.