By Rafael Campo You say, “I do this to myself.” Outside, my other patients wait. Maybe snow falls; we’re all just waiting for our deaths to come, we’re all just hoping it won’t hurt too much. You say, “It makes it seem less lonely here.” I study them, as if the deep red cuts were only wounds, as if they didn’t hurt so much. The way you hold your upturned arms, the cuts seem aimed at your unshaven face. Outside, my other patients wait their turns. I run gloved fingertips along their course, as if I could touch pain itself, as if by touching pain I might alleviate my own despair. You say, “It’s snowing, Doc.” The snow, instead of howling, soundlessly comes down. I think you think it’s beautiful; I say, “This isn’t all about the snow, is it?” The way you hold your upturned arms, I think about embracing you, but don’t. I think, “We do this to ourselves.” I think the falling snow explains itself to us, blinding, faceless, and so deeply wounding.