'I'm not like you.' That's what I told myself. 'I'm not sick.' 'I'm not some freak.' 'I don't need to injure myself to feel alive.' I started out just scratching. Over & over again on the same line until a spot of blood welled along it's length. That was enough. But tonight I kept going. It's still probably nothing compared with what real cutters do. But for me it was a step forward that I shouldn't have taken. I kept scratching until the tip of the blade was down through the skin & in to the flesh, untill I could pull apart the two sides & actually see depth in the wound. I think this one might possibly scar. I was always so careful in the past that they didn't scar, when one got through the skin & into the flesh I would start another on a fresh piece of skin - I wasn't interested in permanantely injuring my body, I just wanted the pain. With my white skin it was hard to hide even a scratch, let alone a scar. Scratching all over my arm in lots of different places was enough to get the pain I wanted, I needed, & they healed completely away in two or three weeks, but this one might stay, as a constant reminder of who I really am. I'm gonna stick a plaster on this one, I don't want people to see & worry about me. Hopefully it'll just heal, or if it does scar, hopefully it'll be a white one that blends in with my skin. But what scares me is that I don't think tonight's will be the last. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the tip of the Stanley knife cutting through my flesh, how I could feel my flesh through the blade, giving way as I dragged it further. I tell myself it's nothing serious yet, but I know this is where it all begins. This is just another step, one I thought I'd never take, but here I am. 'So if I'm not like you...' '... if I'm not sick...' '... if I don't need help...' '... then why the fuck am I doing this?' I couldn't answer that one.