The knife belongs to me. I crafted it many years ago. It’s handle was fashioned out of insecurities. One part “you’re ugly” fused with “no one likes you.” A solid foundation for the piece de resistance. The action part, a piercing blade. Mine is perfect. A sharp “you’ll never be good enough.” I’ve learned how to sharpen the edge over the years. It’s my favorite weapon against myself. If I’m ever in need of extra pain or suffering, my trusty blade is there to jump into action. To make me feel like I’m “too something” or even better “the world would be better off without you.” My heart is a roadmap of scars. Mostly of my own doing. It’s beautiful in its own way. Gives it character. Like a boxer with cauliflower ears. Smashed cartilage, misshapen, and grotesque.