I didn't know why. I sat in the basement of my parents packed house. After divorce they were both moving out. I had a knife and started to cut.
The pain felt good. I made a scar on my arm, now covered by a tattoo.
A few months ago, I was doing it too.
Disappointment at work, fire burning at my town, I couldn't put the knife down.
Scars on my feet, that will never go away. Perhaps another tattoo.
I've stopped for the moment, and that's what matters. Therapy and medication's, my map through emotional tatters.
Three months and some days, no shortage of cravings, but I haven't picked up the knife.
I don't do it for me, but for my two sons, and my beautiful wife.