Kevin O’Connor

“I share with you my secret scars. They used to be cursory marks on my wrists, a temporary reminder to you and to me that I bleed and I am alive. Then they faded away. There were some days that were so painful. So uninterrupted in their pain and chaos that I sought silence. My thoughts devolved and became unanchored. I wrapped the diaphanous bedroom curtain tight around my neck and felt the oxygen leave, felt my tears dampen the polyester. Then I let go and freed myself, yet my mind spun like a centrifuge. A knife. A secret scar to keep me alive. Because if I’m going to keep on living I need to imprint this mental pain and make it physical. No longer palpable in my mind by tangible on my skin. The blade lacerated my thigh and tore it open in one slow but effective slice. It wasn’t enough. I pinched each side of the wound and pulled so that it yawned open like a geyser. And I did it again. And again. For years they felt like a badge of shame. Sophomoric self-mutilation. They are now forever marks on my body. My only tattoo. That’s how I see them. I imagine that’s what it feels like to those who adorn their body in tattooed art. They look at it and reflect on the memory of that place they were once in. There are some days that are so beautiful. So uninterrupted in their unalloyed beauty that it reminds me I am so fucking lucky to be alive. “We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, ‘I survived’.”

“The day I lost my virginity a stranger careened by in his truck and shouted “faggots!” I don’t recall his face or tone of voice. What I remember is the roar of his engine and the deadening silence that sat with us, still and heavy as a tombstone. That cold night we spent together I felt you inside of me; I felt my youth fade away. The day I attended my first gay pride parade a stranger whispered “faggot.” I remember as he pinned me to the bed how relieving the silken sheets felt against my skin. How momentarily still they were compared to the man on top of me. For some time our movements seemed almost synchronous. Me writhing below telling him to stop. His weightiness pressing me down as he went in and out, in and out. When I finally escaped from beneath him he told me to shut up. I was astounded. I felt shattered when I stood outside on his driveway, admiring his palatial estate. I wanted him to feel shattered too. That’s why I stole a crystalline drinking glass as I left and hurled it at his driveway. I watched as it split into a thousand pieces. The tiny shards refracting the glow of the lamplight on that cool summer night. The tiny shards silently refracting my pain within. It was almost a eureka moment. I realized then that I needed to beware. That boys will be boys. I believe it to be true because it is what I have lived to be true. Of course I have been raped. I’m surprised that anyone would find it surprising. A world in which men exist will forever be a world in which terrible things exists. I am so grateful that people bravely share their stories of tragedy and pain. It is education. It is how the world will improve. I also firmly believe that there will never be a void of harmful people. So when you are 21 and a stranger at least a decade older than you tempts you away from your friends, tempts you with cocaine and sex, you say must say no. When you roam the midnight streets alone and drunken, terrible events may materialize in an instant. This world is very beautiful and very dangerous; there are forever dangerous people amongst us. Be brave. Be pragmatic. Be magnanimous. Share your story. Love, Kevin”