Red paintbrush strokes.

Please comment on this poem because it means more to me than i can explain. it just about saved my life by writing this. i will return all comments, thanks.
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The transparency of this pain
Is depicted on my arm,
Where fragile red paintbrush strokes
Have left their elusive charm.

Where a beautiful picture is painted,
Or beautiful to some,
By the fairies weaving their mystical pattern
In the light of crimson Sun.

There's an artist with his palette,
But there's only one colour he'll need
All his other colours
Are outshone by the one I bleed.

The blood fills a pool
That's a calming, cleansing oasis
And another artist comes along
Again trying to paint this.

The strokes paint a bigger picture
With a darker meaning
But no one can see this
Whilst the novelty is gleaming.

Each stroke gets more elaborate
None wanting to be outdone.
Fairies now relax
Enjoying crimson fun.

But the fun had to stop.
And the painting's hung on a wall
With pillows underneath it
Trying to cushion any fall.

Now it's protected by a screen
To prevent any damage,
But the fairies are trying to get through this
And one day soon they will manage.