isopropanol, iron, and betadine
twenty-two lines. i didn’t use to count, but tonight i did. twenty-two lines on my forearms in pulsating red. i wonder if i’ve always marked my skin twenty-two times, or if i’ve made more, but only twenty-two left a scar. perhaps i am subconsciously punishing myself for the twenty-two years i’ve lived. but if i was, twenty-two should not be enough.
when i look down, i see jagged lines. they were not made by an act of precision, but of rage and uncertainty. everything else in my life is measured — days, currency, grades, time. but these marks are liberation — each strike removes a bar from my cage. when i run my fingers against it, i can feel it trying to get out. the softly embossed breaks in my skin scream of its presence, even when i close my eyes.
most of the time, the urge happens in stillness. nothing but the preparations being made before the war starts can be heard. the scratching sound of a micropore being opened. the snips of the scissors, tapes prepared, cotton plucked. the paper packaging of the gauze pad ripped open. that was the only time my demons were silent, because they knew they were gonna get fed.
the scent hits me in sequence — isopropanol, iron, and betadine. the first was a warning. whatever it was howling for, sometimes i am not sure. for me to stop? for me to do it safely? for me to just get fucking on with it? the second, admittedly, barely smelled anything. just peace and torment. the third reeked almost of a promise. i won’t do it again, but no one, not even me, was buying that lie.
even when i let go of all my senses, i can feel the electricity. the numbing, the pain, the break free. if i ran my fingertips through my forearms, i would know which ones were deep and shallow, which ones were healed and recent, and which place i’d do it next.
it was a ritual performed both to free me and condemn me. i am not happy that this is my only resolution. i trick myself and say that this is my way of getting control. but i fear i descend into paranoia and insanity more and more. i wish it wasn’t the only way. i wish injury wasn’t my only relief.
This piece was originally posted on Substack on March 23, 2025 and migrated to BearBlog on March 19, 2026.