She paints a world of crimson midnight,
and you watch the sanguine colors drip down her skin.
Wilted rose petals stain her wrist scarlet,
and canyons are carved deep in porcelain flesh.
"Battle scars," she tells you simply with a flick of the paintbrush,
meticulous as she resumes her sanguine masterpiece.
"Have you won?" you ask,
though you already know the answer.
She smiles fondly and holds up the tormented easel,
for all to see the newly wrought crevice of flaming burgundy.
"How can one win this war against the burning red, my friend,
when you can barely win the battle against yourself?"