The first time we talked about self-harm

we were sitting outside at a picnic table

in the dark. The cold surface seeped into

my bones as we bore our souls to each other.

We came up with the term “son-harm”

like sonar or gaydar but for self-harm.

It was another way in which we clicked,

we understood each other.

I noticed your doodles, art but not Art.

Art is the behavior, art is a coping mechanism.

I second guess myself, don’t even trust

myself to sharpie my own skin.

And then I Arted and told you.

You helped me cover up,

you coloured an intricate pattern

over the angry red lines.