I etch and sketch on my skin,
With a little blade.
Thin and delicate bleeding lines,
Painful sketches I have made.

Sketches made for no one's eyes,
Made only for me to see.
A reminder of how I was,
And who I used to be.

Careful with my little blade,
There can be no mistakes.
The sketch must be perfect,
And there is no way to erase.

I painfully admire my perfect sketch,
And realise that it will fade.
Both heartbroken and relieved,
To hold onto them, I will have to sketch again.