My friend introduced me to cutting,
his arms scarred like he had been wrapped,
tight as a present in razor wire.
It never set right with me,
maybe because where I came from,
Scars are like nicknames.
Earned from others,
and not given to yourself by yourself.
So instead of cutting,
dissecting my issues from my flesh with razors and knives,
I picked fights.
Ones I could never hope to win,
the kind that I didn’t stand a chance,
but the kind that would provide me with pain
a focus of sadness, depression, anger.
Emotions laid bare in moments of clarity,
None of which have ever been as clear,
as after taking a punch that I never saw coming,
even if everything else was blurry.