People play at being scarred: they talk of betrayals and disappointments; wounds that are figments of the imagination at best; a lie believed, a trust broken; minor abandonments that have no consequence.
all my scars are literal: stab wounds and burns, cut fingers and a plunged indentation in the cheek, a forearm etched with an indecipherable i-ching.
I don’t need to talk, I can show.

again the discussion of drugs: this time i might be bipolar and when presented with the evidence, he draws back. perhaps you are just uni-polar.
how about the madness that’s about me? how about the madness i have seen? how about the suffering i have incurred and have put on those that love me? are you telling me all that isn’t enough to feel as i do, to be racked as i am?
there is progress to be made, but it will be made on my terms, as i am. there is nothing wrong with me, there are no wild pendulum swings. i am human, i am frail, but i carry within me a monster who is also my strength. i have a cold trigger, i can become detached at will. it is a survival mechanism.
let’s talk about that. let’s talk about what the fuck happened to me that i felt the need to survive.
hopped up on prozac or coke: it’s just another drug. i am full of addictions, but chemicals ain’t one of them.