I don't remember. I don't remember the pain, I don't remember the knife, I don't remember the depth, I don't remember the scarlet liquid viscosity that dripped from the thin line of mutation. I don't remember. But it is there, to remind me, the thin line that marks my arm, it is there to MAKE remember how I only follow and never lead, how I am a joke in this world of freaks. How I never, not once not ever felt as disgusting as I had at that moment. But it was not only one moment, it was millions of moments, and millions more to come. Do I add to my little gallery of art? Do I tie another bow to remind me of the forgotten, or do I sit and shed and draw with pen on the sides of my thighs. Do I close my eyes and imagine I am not a sheep. Do I close my eyes and imagine that blade slowly running through the side of my leg....
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