my wrists are no

canvas. they 

made be a

painting, but

the materials

include no

white sheet of

paper and a

carefully formed,

soft paint brush.

there are no

strokes made

with love or

care, only

intent. my

wrists are

nothing more

than tree 

bark, cut

into with

initials 

carved into

them, B.

M.

N.

these ghosts

haunt me, but

one of them

isn't dead.