The lines are thin enough to not exist.
The lines are nothing and then appear in red.
The lines are lines. the lines are dots.
The sharp lines on my arm are made with a sharper line of a blade.
Like meets like, even if it hurts for them to meet.
The lines fade and I can recreate them anywhere.
But I need to breathe easy while I do it.
I need a steady hand.
A straight thin line, not too long, makes me feel better.
A curve hurts.
A curve ruins the whole moment.
 
I have mastered lining myself with evidence.
The evidence has mastered invisibility.