Attack
I saw it.
The source.
The reason I am like this.
I’d waited a long time;
the wait was over.
Just us two.
The scars since that first day
I carried on me
were self-inflicted.
Deep, jagged ones.
Light scratches.
Medium cuts.
Steak knives, fingernail files,
razorblades, sewing needles, broken glass.
Every time she hurt me--
word, thought, deed, rumor,
a new one joined the rest.
Preparation.
If I could watch my own blood
run across my skin
and not flinch from the pain,
then she was a lost cause.
The second I saw her without the
group--
there were no witnesses, no cameras, nothing--
scissors in my hand,
I took that chance.
And this time,
the blood on my skin
was not my own.