I'm an artist. I hold the razorblade like a paintbrush, and begin my masterpiece. It's simple yet profound, just straight strokes on a soft surface, and I'm fascinated at the pause before the blood wells in the cuts, as if my body took a moment to realise it was broken, as if my blood was stunned by the freedom suddenly in front of it. I always paint the same picture, and it's always a self-portrait. I paint over the old, the fresh scars overlaying the faded ones, and it's a criss-cross, a tally of the days, of the months I've been trapped, locked away and scratching at my own flesh to get free.