Sometimes at night I can't sleep. I run my fingers over the delicate Braille of cuts and scars. I can read my wrists like a diary (written in blood). I can read of unshed tears and angry slashes, of the small sound skin makes as it splits, of the dark blood that wells up after and of the curious lack of pain. I can read of being alone, unloved, misunderstood, of having worn a mask so long I've forgotten how to take it off. Seven years of Girl Scout First Aid have taught me how to deal with physical pain; it's the emotional pain I can't take. So slowly I turn my hurt to cuts, lining the soft skin of my arms with entries in a journal I never meant to write.