"my scars are so open."
i say. shaking. tears mixing with the numbness in my eyes.

                                                       "so... not scars, then"
                             you say. uncertain of what to do with someone so...
                                                           ­                ... in shambles

"if not scars, i don't know what to call them."
looking at your polished skin. my irises cracking open.

                                                          ­                "wounds."
                                       ­          as if you know what that word means.

"but wounds would have healed by now. i am not supposed to still be broken. my blood should have scabbed, my skin grown over. the thorns are gone, why not the pain?"
each word growing more quiet. my hands trace the cuts and smears follow my fingers.

                                                      "­are you sure you aren't doing this to
                                                                ­       yourself?"
                                              the pen in your hands hasn't made any
                                 words. i wouldn't know what to write either.

"i put down the knife a long time ago."
memories cascade.

                                                  "no, no. not with a knife made of silver.
                   a blade to make those marks would have to be made of
                                                              ­         thought."
                                  you try to remain patient. it's okay if you don't.

"oh."
and
i
shatter