by Corinne Bernat

Created on: July 02, 2009

The clean white wall is filling now
like blood through my veins.
It reflects the pain that's held so deep inside
only a knife can carve it out.
Quick and deep, a slice not a stroke releases me,
the warmth in me.
A waterfall of red emotion.
A rush of pain, tangible to me.
I will use my pencils to try and emulate this warmth,
this high,
over and over again.
Papering the walls.
Covering the holes.
I'm told I must continue to convert this compulsion.
Use pencils not knives.
Scribble it out violently.
Only use black and red, he said.
Black as my soul?
Red as the blood that drags it to life.
And I will survive.
My clean white limb is filling now.
The blade opens me.
Whether pencils or knives,
I am a prisoner to the memories in my head.
I find calm and solace in the color we call red.

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