Acrylic paint stains on a navy background.

Watercolours don't.

Blood doesn't either.

Don't ask me how I know this,

because I'm not going to answer.

I will say that I always wear

navy jumpers,

even in the summertime.

Muddy grass stains on white shorts.

I started bleeding monthly and wore black.

I stopped wearing shorts when I ran out of room,

and when my thighs grew tired of the weight,

my calves learnt to ache just the same.

I hardly leave the house anymore, so

it's clear we've given up on climbing trees.

When I say I switched razor blades for palette knives,

it sounds romantic.

That's not what this is,

because the truth is it's never been one or the other.

Slice, grin, roll down your sleeve,

impasto on top like the double decker bus you tried to

throw yourself in front of:

Cleaning palette knives on my sweater.

Acrylic paint stains on a navy background.

Joggers with paint marks streaked across the knees.

They are the only clothes that hide my hips enough

to keep me sane

when my body starts feeling like a crime again.

There are days when I feel like a serial killer,

when I see my reflection in the school bus window,

wishing to smash the glass

and with the shards,

slit the throats of everyone pretty.

And then my own,

because why live in a world without

beauty?

I think it's clear to say that I have always been the problem.

So why do you care

how I choose to use my stationery?