My own artist. Self-harming poem.

I can be an artist in my own way.
My paper is my skin and my pen is my blade.
The sting calms me until it goes numb, after that I feel nothing at all.
I draw these pictures deep into my skin.
My art however I can not erase and begin again.
The ink for my pen shines blood red as the images come to life spilling out from within.
I am my own artist, just not in a way people understand.