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.