Every cut she makes, it reminds her of someone she’s lost.
The jagged scar along her shin for her grandmother.
The puckered hole on her arm for her mother.
The slashes on her hip for her father and brother.
The crisscrossed welts on her back from all of her boyfriends at the “wellness facility.”
And the fresh gash on her face for her therapist.
The blood on the letter-opener… some of it his, some of it hers.
She wipes it on the therapist’s sleeve, sits calmly in his chair, and waits for the orderlies to come to take her away.