Too many nights of my adolescence were spent sitting on the bathroom floor of my parent's house ripping my leg open. I would deconstruct a cheap plastic pink razor, peeling the soap strip and hard plastic up, then the thin sheath that protected the metal. Once I finally wiggled the slim metallic bar from the pink posts, it was time to do the devil's work.
It always started on the outside of my knee, right where a garter would belong. I made small diagonal slits at first, and they grew as the excitement and dread of the beaded blood filled my head. I would make my way up, dragging the bargain metal slabs in longer and longer streams. I would peel the skin away from the slits so more vermillion would leak up through the dermal layer. The sting was sharp but softened the throbbing in my skull. To be torn away from the angst in that calcium coffin served me well, even though it left as quickly as it came.
Slicing myself was a coping mechanism I used for 8 years- I have the abnormal slits scarred into my arms and when the light hits them just right, I am reminded that I carry their weight. I can never escape the heaviness that lays on my heart from the wounds I administered to my own body. Some speak of emotional scars that they bear but I bear the marks- the flesh and fucking blood.