Dec 21, 2018
I run my fingers over the very first scar I gave my self. On my left arm, running horizontally, about five inches before the crease of my inner elbow. It’s small. A clean, straight forward slice. As if a surgeon ran his scalpel over a perfectly porcelain field of cells.
I distinctly remember the river of cerise trickling down my elbow and onto the shower tiles below, the water guiding it past my toes and into the drain.
That was my very first cut, it wasn’t planned. But it was the foundation of my self destruction. All the other scars faded, from my hips, my thighs, my shoulder blades and my inner arms. But this one remains, as porcelain as the field it started on, welded between my tanned skin, reminding me of what I had been.
