Fourteen years ago at midnight
I was born into a body of skin, bone and fragile lungs.
The canvas of my skin was blank as could be
Like the roof of an igloo when the snow had stopped.
Three years later, my canvas began to grow.
I became a painter, a little artist.
I had tripped on my skates and was left laying in the frozen lake, looking up at the Pale, Russian sky.
I have only an area of tinted skin on my knee to prove it had happened.
At the age of 10 I had ribbons in my hair
And a Valentine for Dimitri behind my back.
But the only thing I got in return
Was a paper cut on my finger from one of the million little shreds.
Some people are blessed with freckles on their canvas
And they look like beautiful autumn faeries.
I know people that have injected ink into their skin,
And coloured their canvas.
I hope one day to do the same.
Me, my canvas was and is never anything special nor beautiful.
Nobody cares about your old IV used to feed you when you refused to eat
Or the bruises you gave yourself as you smashed your body against a cement wall
When you were angry at yourself.
Not even the various scars of accidents that weren't really accidents.
~Sinead Olga V.