Sleeves were never long enough for her;

She was always pulling at them.

Most thought she must have been one of those freak cutters back in the day,

And while she was, that wasn't why she pulled on her sleeves now.

Clothes were always her greatest comfort.

They provided shelter from the weather around her, warmth for her human skin,

But most of all, clothes could hide things she wanted no one else to see.

Her greatest talent in life had to be her drawing,

And on nights she couldn't sleep, her drawings would become part of her skin.

She would leave these masterpieces on her body for weeks at a time,

But others would never accept this method.

More feelings flow from the mouth of a pen than the edges of a blade.

It just was that sleeves were never long enough for her,

But she was never ashamed.

She continued to tug at her sleeves because her sensitive soul didn't want to offend, didn't want the judgment that would ensue her.

Sitting in a train car often made her dream of more things she could draw,

Things she could give life to.

She would leap off the train at the latest of hours, run home, and draw what she had thought about the entire ride.

Some days, these creations would be animals, flowers, anything one could imagine,

But my favorite were the emotional days that would end with every feeling being etched into her skin.

I would watch her as she would go to work, using every perfect hue of color.

It would flow across her body like it was supposed to be there,

Like the colors were needed in order for her to survive.

In a way, this was true.

If she didn't tattoo herself routinely, I know this beautiful creature would return to the ways of her youth.

As I stand here and watch this gorgeous human give life to her skin, I can't help but think of everything that has brought her to this point.

How does one become so broken her only solace is creating life on herself?

I'm amazed by this woman I call my love, but I wouldn't have it any other way.