I wish your severing didn't make me want to become an artist.

I could never paint on a canvas. I could never draw in a sketchbook. I could never build a masterpiece.

Yet, I can create art.

I can cultivate vivid images of wars, internally fought and externally fought. Battles of bloodshed and anguish.

I can conjure up the brightest of all crimsons.

I can make jagged lines that tell of our last conversation, in Braille, upon my skin.

I can become the artwork that you always wished I could be.