what if I told you every scratch on my arm, every scar and every drop of blood and every trace of smoke is there for a reason. Would you understand? I don't think so. I do understand that. But even if I do I want to say to you that I can't tell you that I'm sorry about this. The pain in my head is so unbearable that my skin is numb to the touch. Every drop of blood has a little pain in it, untill all the pain is gone. You could say my skin is a faucet. It lets the pain flow outside. The scars aren't pretty, but they keep me alive. The faucet isn't working properly, but it works good enough to keep me breathing