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Wednesday, June 24, 1998
24 Jun 98
By Paul Ford
A Thing to Do
A Thing to Do
Most days it's dandy but I do have two little white scars on my arm, from a night in 1994 when I sliced myself with a hunting knife (three months of long sleeves) and then went after my face.
Just a thin, long red line going down the cheek. My roommate took pictures. A guy named Dave came over, too, and we chatted about other things. I kept cutting, back to the arms, saving the blood on a campus memo.
I'd seen an ex-girlfriend at a pizza shop and walked down the street and began screaming loud and inarticulate. I walked to my dorm room, flipped the knife and started. I kept cutting and the cuts seeped smoothly. My roommate came in and didn't say anything. He'd carved crosses into his chest, months before.
My last girlfriend cut her feet with a knife. My friend carved crosses in his chest. I met a teenager who pressed cigarettes into her chest. Men with white lines on the backs of their hands. And probably you, at some point.
I am ashamed and feel it was silly, now, but then I needed a map to my angers. I'd exhausted other methods, so I drew the map on my arms. After that I could see the difficulties clearly, and with iodine and bandages, I watched the problems heal.
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