“I don’t like making friends. No, I like it, I enjoy it. It’s fun. Quite fun. Until you start getting closer. And now it’s the share secrets time. Let’s talk about our past. That happened to you? I had no idea. I’m sorry. No, don’t worry. I like making friends, what I don’t like is keeping them. Making them is fun. You talk and laugh and share common interests. Then they get close. And I let them. And they come closer. And I still let them, until I feel an urge to push them one hundred miles back. I don’t like opening up. I don’t want to do that. I have cut myself open for others to see and they did nothing but watch. Admire it. They look at my scars like they were a painting hanging in a museum. Almost as if they found them fascinating. My body is torn, what is fascinating about that? I’m not your museum. I am not your damn museum. You can touch me. I won’t lose value if you do, I’m not a damn painting. You were supposed to hug me. But they don’t know what to do. They have no idea how to deal with me. And they treat me like an ancient, fragile piece of art. But I’m a person. I’m human. I’m real. You were supposed to hug me. Then they don’t find the right words. They don’t know what to say. They were not ready for this. And you think damn, if only I hadn’t opened up. I don’t want to cut any part of my body open again. The stitching hurts too, and that is something people forget about. I don’t like being too close to others. I feel too open, too exposed. I don’t want anyone else to see me. Enough people have had their fun with the marks around my wrists. The doors are closed. The doors have been closed and locked for a while now and they will remained locked. For the one lucky person that got in in time, congratulations. You are in and you are not walking out on me. I locked the door behind you. You are staying, you are all I’ll keep. And no one else. No one else will see my naked skin again.”