Bleeding Heart

I started believing in art as a form of release a few weeks after inpatient.

Instead of moving around my veins, painting the world black

with my agony, I painted the world as my mother.

Or my sister. Just love. I painted the world I wanted to love,

even if it was just as fake as the bleeding heart on the canvas. 

I used my razors for one last piece—a form of symbolism.

I dragged the sharp end of the metal across the fresh,

deep-red oils caked onto the canvas. Thicker than blood,

not to be mistaken. Under the wonted exterior of flesh-tones is

life and creativity, waiting to be scraped free. 

As an artist now, I find little time to paint with ichor from my wounds.

Moments not spent distracted are usually spent waiting for

the next inspiration. No longer is my pain a forest fire with no end in sight—

It is the coal shoveled into the engine that keeps my 

heart from burning out completely. 

-m.k.

Painted by me in 2016