Have you ever felt like an intruder in your own skin? Like you don't know who you are, what you're supposed to be doing, or just like your body isn't yours? It could be almost described as a soul-deep itch, a malcontentedness with ones flesh and blood. Oftentimes, people turn to external stimuli to cope with this feeling; some turn to surgeries and hormone replacements in pursuit of a feeling of "normalacy", others turn to excessive excersize for the sake of acquring "gainz" and feeling complete, however still others turn to substance abuse and even suicide due to a profound lack of a coping mechanism. I, and many others like me, have opted for a more self-destructive approach: self-harm. This particular coping mechanism trades a mental anguish for that of a more physical nature. However, this coping mechanism could be described as an Ouroboros-esque method, as it trades temporary relief of the self-hatred while causing scars upon the flesh of the body. This fuels further self-hatred, which in turn leads to further automultilation. This is very similiar to the substance usage method, wherein the addiction creates a cycle of usage, leading to continued self-loathing, which leads to usage, ad infinitum. A small debt of blood paid that quickly leads to further wounding, but where does it end? The infinite what-ifs play at the edges of the conciousness; What if I strike the blade too deeply into my flesh? Will I bleed to death here, in this cesspool of guilt and sin? what would my family and acquaintences think and feel? Would I be missed? Ultimately, however, these doubts and concerns are all banished as the blade falls again, and again. But one doubt remains, bloated and writhing like a psychic maggot of some sort: Surely there's a better way to cope than abusing my skin until it resembles a patchwork quilt?