Scars: More Notes on Self Destruction

"You should wear with pride the scars on your skin, they're a map of the adventures and the places you've been"

--Poi Dog Pondering

I have a scar on my left arm. It's about 6 inches long and 1/2 an inch wide. It resembles an earthworm, smooth and rounded with that pale luminous sheen of deep scar tissue. There is another one that surrounds it, a fine white outline of an arrow head or dagger point. I still can't remember which it was supossed to be. I carved them when I was 14.
I used an old pocket knife a friend had given me. The same knife would later be used in an overtly public suicide attempt by a another friend of mine. It wasn't particularly sharp, messy but effective. A shot of rum and the first cut. It broke the skin, a flash of red warmth. The second cut was hot, a little bit deeper. The third fourth fifth and so on were indescribable. It took about ten passes to get down into the muscle tissue. Then I stopped and watched. I used my fingers to pry it open, move things around a bit and see what I looked like, on the inside. Multi colored layers streaked with white, like the steaks on display at the supermarket. Animal meat. Undeniable. Another shot of rum and the second one was begun, for decoration, for the hell of it, for fun. It was very shallow, just enough to assure permanence. The soft shadow of a blade, an edge of steel inscribed in my flesh. Then I wrapped a cloth around it and went to bed. No stitches, no cosmetic surgery to hide who I was, who I am. A scar, the permanent mark of yesterdays pain, reminder of a wound I can still feel on some nights.