Stabbed

There are experiences that lie beyond what words can hold. Being stabbed is one of them. A knife pierces the skin, cuts through tissue, enters the body — and with it something enters that goes deeper than any physical wound: the experience that your boundary was crossed in the most brutal way. That someone literally opened you — without your permission, without respect, without regard for your life.

The act itself is a crime. There is nothing to interpret here, nothing to relativise, nothing to reframe. The perpetrator's responsibility stands — fully and non-negotiably. And at the same time: if you survived this experience, something remains. Not only the scar on the skin, but a question that is quieter than the pain, yet more persistent: what was so far at the edge in my inner life that my life reached this outermost point?

This question is not an attribution of blame, but a door.