Every scar represented a battle she couldn't overcome that night. Every last wound on her pail white arm. She was not cold nor bitter. But she was to sweet, to week. People stomped all over her and all her dreams. She was left broken, and with nothing.
Her escape was to bleed, an cry, keep it all inside. Making her slowly lose her mind, in a way no one can recover. All she liked to do was draw and paint. See a figure that she has created. Maybe a monster. Or maybe something only she could understand.
It was something beautiful, lines representing scars, guns with colors beyond description. Love was everywhere. including the wounds that are on their way to life. She lived for drawing and painting. She had even left her body behind to live in color. In a world that she could only create. Over time, she fell inlove with her world. Perfectly made in scars of color.