Skinned.

We all have secrets.

For in fact, I have many.

Some of which, are secret to just my friends, others, to also my family, and some too, secret to me. These are truths that are kept, and untold. But keeping silent stories to yourself for too long becomes more than dreadful.

The weight of words behind the knots of sealed lips blister the insides of my mouth. My tongue and cheeks are ripped, and stained with blood. These words so sharp must be let free - released - so that I may heal.

But how shall I begin?

The locks that tie me shut in silence are numb now: It is so difficult to speak those things I promised myself I wouldn't. Though I believe the time has come that I should. It is time, for the least, that I try.

.. (deep breath)

With a heavy sigh, and a bead of sweat across my brow, today I speak these words: My name is Hajer Nasir, and I am a victim of self-harm.

It wasn't something of recent beginning. I have been cutting since the age of 9, as of what I remember.

I was never one to fit in to crowds - always pushed aside, discriminated, and judged. I didn't speak much either; only ever kept my opinions to myself. No one listened to me, and when they did, they wouldn't have liked what they heard.

I am caved, and traumatized by life itself - by the people that walk it, and the things they do that they call living. Everything, and everyone makes me feel worthless.

To understand that you are a smaller being of a larger reality is humble - but to believe you are simply less than the ash in the wind, is simply depressing.

No one should ever stoop so low to my level. No one should ever believe that they mean nothing, and that their mere living is a waste of space, and time - to believe that God made you an error for jokes and laughs or to fill up the empty gaps of an already crowded world.

But all those thoughts of terror were mine.

And if you were to roll up my sleeves, and flip my arm outwards to the paler part of my skin, you would see the scars of my secrets told through the blade of my lonely nights.

They seem faded now, with the growth of my experience to coat over them like paint, but to touch its surface, I can still feel the shudder of the cold knife, grazing softly, deeply into the flesh.

And cutting wasn't the only thing I did.

But the details of that are unimportant.

What matters now is that the truth is no longer a secret. I have opened up my veins, reaped of my dark side, into words that are gestured to the public.

Judge me now, as you always do; sympathize, as you pass me in the hallway.

It matters not to me now, for I have thrown away the fear of people knowing, as I bare myself, stripped and naked to the truth.

Though I am not proud of the things I have done - I am proud that I am still standing, breathing, alive and well, here today, to tell you of the things I have done.

So here you have it. No fancy words, no poetry, no metaphors: just a sad story, of a sad girl, who took 10 years to finally brave her chest to the bullets of an open fire.

(exhale)

My name is Hajer Nasir, and I am a fighter.