A Scar That Doesn't

Bear with me, as this may sound a little crazy. As it is, I've come to you as a last resort. I'm sort of desperate. You see, my arm has been broken in three places and I couldn't be happier about it. The doctor said I'd be in this cast for 7 months and I almost jumped out of my chair to hug him. Sick right? Don't get me wrong, it hurt like hell. But you couldn't get me to trade that rush for anything.
Maybe this pleasure came from the memories my burning arm brought to mind. Cause every ache felt like every time he told me he loved me until he didn't anymore. It pierced like his hips pressing into mine until he pulled away. It was the sting of every fight that led to make-up sex until he wasn't there to undress.
So, I'm getting off subject but, you get the idea. And I think that's where my broken arm came from. A little idea. Untangible and unseen.  But it hurt like hell. His idea was a break and in turn mine was broken.  Who said there was such a thing as a small idea? If it were a small idea, perhaps my arm would still be intact. And perhaps my heartache would only worsen.
Here was my logic: The throbbing in my chest is unbearable and if i don't get rid of it in some way or distract myself tremendously, I'm going to fall apart.
And so I threw myself down some stairs.
Yes, I know. Very poor decision making on my part. But, like I said, I'm desperate. The broken arm was really a surprise. I expected bruises, cuts, scrapes, maybe a gash or two. I got that, and much much more.
And once my heartache spread to my arm I could breathe a little better. I was seeing a little clearer. I was walking a little lighter.
And then my arm was healing faster than the doctor promised. And my cast came off in only five months. And I needed more time.
My chest pounded and it wasn't the kind of pain I could tolerate ripping at my memory.
So I ran my car into a tree.

That's where you come in.
The last adventure I went on, also known as slamming into a tree going 45 miles per hour, landed me in a hospital bed hooked up to machines that are thinking, breathing, and beating for me.
A coma. That oughta cure the heartbreak.
Except it's leaving me with way too much time to let my spinal cord rip and writhe inside of me. Except I didn't sign up for weeks of being idle. Except I wanted injuries! I wanted scars and broken bones and casts to show the world, to show myself how my heart felt. How my heart must have looked. I needed proof. Nothing should hurt this much without tangible, physical proof.
Right?
Come on. This is why you're here. I need you to administer this proof. I need you to take all my physical evidence and push it toward one last chance.
Come closer. This is why I brought you here. I need you to take this needle out of me. I need you to unplug my artificial mind and heart. So they may fade with my real ones. I need you to free me from this hell worse than the heartbreak itself. A life spent in the company of an ever healing wound that would never feel the same but that would never show itself scarred. I need you to let me slip into the unknown. Along with the mass of lifeless weight inside my chest.
I need you to help me scar myself beyond repair.
Far worse than I ever have.
Far worse than falling down stairs.
Far worse than being wrapped around a tree.

I need a scar that goes as deep as the cut.
I need a scar that stops the pain.
I need another scar.