Wrists

I was born with a scar on my left wrist. I often tug down my sleeve, staring at the light flesh smeared on my hand, a different skin tone than the rest of my body. It was never peculiar to my friends and family I showed it to, but it was peculiar to me. It was centered just underneath my sleeve, hidden from the naked eye. What does that sound like to me?

To answer the question, nobody put a knife in my body. I put it there myself. Nobody forced me to make that decision but myself. I made myself do it. I was not murdered in my past life; It was a suicide.

Someone hurt me so bad I felt the need to take a razor to my skin and peel off skin and bone until I was dry. Until I was numb. They pushed me to my breaking point but took no blame for what happened next.

So, yeah. I put the knife in my skin myself. I'm not proud of it.