When I get a scratch,
One that draws blood,
I am sometimes filled
With the urge
To purposefully cut there again
In order to ensure a scar.

Maybe it's because
I want my skin to tell a story,
Not to be perfect.
I want my skin
To tell the world
I have been through fire,
Or thorns and pointy desks as it were,
And survived.

There is something that stops me.
And it's more than the memory
Of the young girl who only
Wore long sleeves.
It's something more that I can't explain,
As well as the knowledge that if I started
I would be unable to stop.

As I write this,
I wonder wether
Writing out the darkness helps define it,
Shape it,
That I may understand it
And defeat it.
Or does writing my thoughts
Make them stronger?