The first time I hurt myself, I was seventeen. It was an accident, really—I didn't mean to wander into that room. Like most seventeen-year-olds, I'd been feeling misunderstood and forlorn, anxious and angry. That night was particularly dark, no moon shone in the sky, no stars managed to pry their way through the thick cover of clouds. I'd gone to the library, sneaking in through an unlocked door in the back, making my way through shelves of dimly-illuminated books. Ahead of me, I could see a light creeping out from under a door. I didn't remember that door. Curious, I'd opened it slowly, softly, pushing myself inside. Before I fully entered the space, I felt a strong sensation of hesitation. I felt that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell me to leave. I didn't leave. Curiosity killed the cat, and I was undoubtedly a cat person.

It was morning when they found me, when the librarian pushed open the door to the tiny supply closet and saw my crumpled form sitting motionless between the brooms. My parents asked what happened. I said I didn't remember. I lied. My first scar appeared soon after, an inch-long line right on my chest, right above my heart. It hurt, a lot.

The second time I hurt myself, I was twenty. It wasn't an accident, not quite. I'd been visiting home from college, spending my winter break with family and memories alike. An argument had broken out between my father and I one night, and I'd left the house in a fuming blaze to go on a walk. I was in the wrong, and I knew it, and after a while my rage was replaced with guilt. The guilt stung, it hurt, and I embraced the pain—I felt I deserved it, being such an awful daughter.

I hadn't intended to visit the library, but as I was lost in thought, my feet brought me to that building, that large brick building, and around the back to the door that used to be unlocked. I checked. Unlocked. I went in.

I couldn't tell you why I went in, I really couldn't. I think I was still curious, still dumb and curious, and I felt like I deserved more pain, so I walked in the direction of the door I'd gone through three years earlier. Sure enough, like magic, like dark magic, I soon saw the light creeping out from underneath the door. I paused before entering, asking myself, steeling myself.

I pushed inside, and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was lying on the floor of the old supply closet, empty aside from a bucket and a mop. Funding wasn't very good for the library, back then. I left the library at dawn, before most people were up, and made my way back home for reconciliation and a mug of hot coffee. My second scar appeared soon after, another inch-long line that ran across the first one, forming an 'X' over my heart. It hurt, a lot.

The third time I hurt myself, I was twenty-seven. I hadn't visited home for years, graduate school and marriage had kept me busy. It was the holidays again, and I'd brought my husband to see my hometown. We were staying with my parents, in my old bedroom, and I felt happy, happy. I felt happy, until suddenly I didn't.

I've always had issues with emotional swings, but I'd hoped the worst days were behind me. That night, I left the house in frustration with myself. I left the house and marched to the library, marched through the unlocked door, marched to the light. I was getting an advanced degree in biochemistry, and I justified my rather reckless behavior by telling myself I was merely conducting another experiment to verify and replicate the results of my previous two.

I pushed the door open. That time, I didn't lose consciousness. I could see everything with blinding clarity, except I wasn't sure what everything really was. Colors were distorted, shapes seemed magnified in peculiar manners, and hazy forms floated past me. I felt as though I'd stumbled into a surreal, absurd, messed-up painting, some demonic world designed to ensnare the curious, designed to kill cats, and I was undoubtedly a cat person. The lights were far too bright, and my eyes began to grow uncomfortable. I wondered why I didn't black out, wondered whether I'd built up some sort of tolerance to the weirdness.

I hadn't. One of the forms floated in my direction, staring without eyes, unblinking, and I felt my legs begin to crumple beneath me. I saw a knife blade flashing, I felt a sharp pain on my chest, right above my heart, right in the location of my first two scars. Something made a horrible noise, almost like a drill, and my chest began to hurt even more. There was blood, there was so much blood.

I didn't recognize my heart when they pulled it out of me. It was far too fleshy and disgusting, far too fatty. I blacked out then.

I think I woke up after that, though I'm still not quite sure. The world doesn't seem quite so real as it used to, and there are subtle differences that I can't quite describe. Maybe I'm dead, maybe I'm not quite me anymore.

There are three scars on my chest now. They hurt, a lot.

From the ages

of twelve to fifteen

I wore somewhere

between

twelve to fifteen bracelets

to cover the bandages

on my left wrist.

Luckily,

and unluckily, I suppose,

that was somewhat

fashionable

for that era.

I was a walking

‘Help Wanted’ poster,

hoping someone

would see beyond

the giggles and

hyperactive tendencies.

Looking back,

the public school system

requiring tetanus shots

is probably what

saved my life.

!(tw: s.h)!

I broke last night.

I broke because I looked at my leg;

Noticed that my scar,

The one I was repeatedly told I would hate,

The one I kept loving,

Is fading.

Fading into the background of my skin.

Now that my skin is peppered by hundreds of other scars it seems to sink.

The part of my history that I remember.

The funny story that accompanied it.

The people attached to it's memory.

They seem to sink.

The jarring sight it used to create seems muted now.

Because of the multiple times I broke.

When I broke and so I broke my skin.

Over, and over again.

Should I hate it now that it seems so much less?

Should I have framed it?

Drawn a box around it to ensure nothing could reach it's colour?

It's still there;

Still a large reminder of a mistake.

But I miss the people from the mistake.

And the scars around it are no mistake.

At first glance it reminds me of camouflage.

At second glace it seems otherworldly.

At third glance I no longer search for it.

I still yearn for it but I know it is no longer lonely;

It is alone in itself,

But no longer lonely.

Should I be happy?

I was told I should hate it.

Now you no longer "see" it,

You see the thin red lines around it.

All of those horizontal,

This one vertical.

Should I hate it more now?

Or is this more reason to adore it?

I cant't decide and so I colour outside of the box once more.

Dearest Montrez,

It has been several years since we last seen each other, I want you to know that I forgive you for the trespasses that you commited against me. I would like to thank you for the life lessons. Your taught me that I AM worthy to be loved and have all my dreams come true. This was my life lesson and you were the teacher. I am a better version of myself because of you. I loved you then, and I love you now. Good-bye my past professor, my life is for me now. I will never forgot what you taught.

Love forever,

ME

My father would never let me forget:

“Only boring people get bored, Anna.”

He never let us forget what annoyed us the most.

He kept us grounded.

The many sides of my father

come and go at mercurial speeds.

He lunges outward like the many appendages of a squid.

A flow of steady differences 

causing mutiny in our prediction of what is next.

Fate never stood a chance against my father.

I guess, he never saw such promise in something so sealed.

Secret places of hiding were never his style.

He was a moving ball of kinetic energy

open and furious,

unleashed.

But gentle when he swept you away.

And did he sweep us away.

Even amidst our annoyed eye rolls

and heaving sighs,

His point was always made.

We were, at the very least,

never bored.

When I read the Percy Jackson series, I saw a piece of myself in every character. Rick Riordan's representation paves the way for acceptance and tolerance in all religions, races, sexualities, and genders.

I want to write like that. I want to inspire people. I want to foster pride in our differences. I want to help kids like me with mental illness or dysphoria feel pride and love for who they are. I want everyone to feel loved and respected. And so I want to write stories, poems, novels, anything, really, that will create that pride. Maybe I've never met Rick Riordan, but he's touched my mind. I want to capture the same wit, the same shameless individuality, the same diversity, that he has in his characters. If it weren't for him, I might never have taken up the craft. I might never be where I am today or writing as much as I do. I might never have found my place.

So maybe you can have a mentor even if that mentor doesn't know you exist.

I write out the memories, so I wont forget

I made a promise, I don’t regret

Almost every day before you moved to baltimore

You asked me never to forget, and I promised and I swore

So when you passed away the promise took new meaning

For some time I failed because I was deeply grieving

But now I'm ready to be brave and share your story with the world

So if you read carefully, I will share the story of a girl

I miss your hand on my shoulder

You were always the one who was boulder

I wish your hand was in mine so we could face this together

You were the rock, I was the feather

You held me down to earth, and in place

I was fragile, full of grace

You were sturdy, immovable thing

That was, until you moved away from me

You kept making me promise never to forget you

It was an obsession that did not beset you

But every single time you asked, I promised on my life

And when you passed away, it twisted in the knife

Some of me wished to forget, put the promise to rest

Most of me wanted to honor you, and your last wish

I thought about cutting you name into my skin

I could never get up the nerve to plunge the knife in

People kept hugging me, or offering to talk with me 

I always politely declined, I was not ready

I found resolve in writing what I was feeling

At first it was just jumbles of anguish and grieving

But eventually I started writing out her story

The story only I can tell, in her memory

I am graduating today

And your hand should be in mine

We always planned this day together

We swore we would not cry

We always said, on the very last day of school

We would say what we really think of everyone

But now without you here

I can't do it alone

I can't speak my mind freely

That was always your specialty

You would always give me that boost of confidence I needed

We always thought we would graduate together

And after, we would have a sleepover

We always thought you would live to see this day

But i'm standing on this stage alone

Because you left this world in may

And im graduating without my best friend