You're Doing It Wrong!

The few that know of the pain I have felt,

Just look upon the meager amounts of scarring,

And say matter-of-factly "You're doing it wrong!"

"Oh, for the love of gawd! It's not even on your wrist!"

My upper-arms are littered with small cuts,

Ranging from scabbed and healing to pale-pink, permanent,

The word 'ugly' almost vanished from below one knee.

But all I hear is "If it's not on your wrist, it doesn't count!"

So in a fit of isolation,

In eagerness to earn their sick approval,

I hunt out the nail scissors and the razor blade,

And reach a new milestone in self-destruction.

The End

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