She lifted the hem of her white silk blouse slowly, revealing along the porcelain skin of her delicate thigh a series of self inflicted scars. To anyone else these scars would ruin the otherwise flawless skin, but to the girl who made them, the faded, hazel lines were beautiful. She looked down on them fondly, almost proudly, as mothers did with beautiful, sleeping children.
(if you're interested, you can read it here: [link] )
When I started thinking about the photo more, at first, I was rather puzzled. It's like the idea is all backwards: poems, in many cases, are the speeches of the heart - expression of yourself. And it would be more logical to portray one writing with oneself, not on oneself.
But then again, maybe the idea is the opposite. Maybe you yourself can become the expression, become the poem, maybe the expression is to yourself.
Anyway, I think it is a pretty and thought-provoking piece.