I read once about a girl who cut stinging words into her flesh, some flowery, a few dirty, many harsh and emotional. The book was really very good. It was titled Sharp Objects and written by a now favorite author by the name of Gillian Flynn, called so because the woman within would use any object to slice herself to safety so long as it was sharp enough.

Reading the book of murders and teeth pulled out, a small town of 2,100-something turned into a serial killer's paradise, gave me a strange sense of calm. I know- strange, right? But compared to the horror within the book, my life is nothing- a speck of dust or dirt or perhaps dead skin to be swept up by the vacuum. I read it and I wanted to pull Camille into an under-fed hug even though I knew from reading that she would not accept it.

But even as it put my life into perspective, and I saw how much more horrible it could be, I wanted to say: I understand. I wouldn't have wondered like her mother or the doctors of the asylum (because, despite what you'll argue, that's what it was and is... call it what you want: mental hospital, institution, loonybin, nuthouse, bedlam... they're all the same thing), why she did what she did. Instead, I'd have said two simple words: I understand.

I understand why you would cut and burn and do anything you could to get those words permanently ingrained in your skin. I understand why you would write each and every one of them slowly and steadily and even how you kept your hand from slipping, or the blade from dropping to the ground because of all the blood, red as anger. It is the same as my drawings, yet different. I slice the words onto porcelain paper and leave it to bleed droplets of night black ink while you slash it prettily upon your summer-tanned skin and wipe to prevent staining.

Don't misunderstand- for I am often misunderstood- I do cut. Oh, and for that reason I understand why you use flesh as your canvas and sharp objects as your medium. The sting means feeling- feeling, the light in a dark sea of nothing- it means safety and being grounded. I am not anxious when I cut- I am not worried or scared or brave- I am not weak or strong or apathetic, sympathetic, or empathetic. When I cut, I am the knife and the piece of skin I bite into is my meal and it fills me up with a calm I can't explain and a sense that I can make it through to my next meal if only the gash from the bite continues to fester until then.

Oh yes, I understand.

I understand far more than any know, and if we lived closer to each other we may be friends.

Be calm, Camille, and live on, because one day someone may need you.

~Philena.