I was sixteen when I decided to ya know make a wound. The kind of wound that would wound you for life. It is the kind of wound that leaves this kind of scar that you will see forever. No matter how much this kind of scar fades, you will always kind of see this faint out line of new flesh. As this new kind of flesh ages and tans over the years from the changes of life, you will still see it. Somehow it will always be paler or stretched, shiny, gritty, deeper and new to you. It will be a reminder to you. What it will remind you of at the time you are looking at it, will be up to you. For years, for years I have looked at the one, just one… The one that is on my left arm, between the crook of my elbow and a little lower from the wrist. It’s faint, but deep. I can see the vein that was nicked… just a tap. I never meant to go so- it’s there. It’s there and I always thought of him. My mind will catch him first… However after being seventeen and eighteen and he just stayed sixteen the scar slowly began its journey into something else. It reminded me I was lost. It reminded me that I sucked. It was there to remind me that people hate me, that I hate me. The reminder of negative, of minus and of null. I couldn’t help the way I thought about that scar. It changed me. However years went by, twenty, twenty-one, two; I changed. I never kept it the same. Life began to teach that who I am, hated who I was. It never stopped being that string tied tightly around a finger, but people kept wondering “What is its presence supposed to remind me of?” and the worry carried on. The anxiety and hiding who I was and who I am still. Was I still that person? Twenty-five, twenty- six and then seven… I had looked at the scar in those years differently as I started to look at those years askew as well as the rest of life. It’s not like the view isn’t clouded with anxious thoughts of who I am supposed to be, but understanding that the choices I am making created the person writing this instead of getting high in the backseat of cars and continuing to be angry about my mother drinking and the manhandling at home. Instead of holding onto anger and resenting everyone who didn’t “understand me” or who had “done me wrong”. It’s difficult to finally evolve your thinking into remembering “it was me who had to change”. I changed. It wasn’t what was around me that was changing me entirely. I had the choice to change all this time and that’s what that kinda scar reminds me of now. Forever now this scar on my left wrist that is deep, dark, long and unevenly stretched with a tattoo that I had my friends dot into me in their parent’s kitchen with a safety pin and a ball point pen: “Only you can change yourself”.