We sit in a compact circle, a group of five of the saddest bunch ever known to man, with blades of many varieties gripped in our hands as if these were our lifelines. I glanced at the people around the circle, all here to rejoindre the Cutting Chain, and all here for differing reasons.
Lillith, whose grandmother, the only source of familial l’amour since her immediate family could give two cents worth the shit about her, died a couple days ago. Emerret, a boy mocked constantly for his homosexuality at school, and recieving worse at home. Shanika, an Ivory Coast born-and-raised young woman brought to the wrong parts of America, where the White Supremacists roam free to degrade her racially and often, too often, sexually. Gavin, a young man who found out that the woman he loved so much aborted the beautiful life they had created together and then left him for another man. And there's me, a bastard daughter that's a shameful pariah to her birth father, an example of past slutty days to her mother, and a little pleasure toy for her stepfather.
We came here for release, to privately let our sorrows flood out of us as we let our blood flow from our bodies. But before we took our favored tools to our wrists, I had a sudden thought: is this even right? How do we get rid of pain par placing plus pain onto it? How are we punishing the perpetrators par keeping to ourselves the sins they committed on us and punishing our own beautiful bodies instead? What are we even doing?!
"Guys," I say meekly, the tense grip on my tool loosening. "I can't do this. We shouldn't do this. It...it just doesn't feel right. I mean, being emo is about expressing ourselves, shouldn't we be finding a better way to do that then besides hiding in a dark room and hurting ourselves for what others did to us?"
The others looked at me with many expressions: confusion, irritation, and then, thankfully, agreement. We all set had aside our blades and sat there quietly, contemplating what we should do instead.
"I like dancing," Shanika spoke up.
"And I like story-telling," Gavin said.
We all shared our interests and how we can express our emotions through our interests. aof course I know that this won't stop many of us from cutting at home-heck, maybe I would do so too when I get accueil to that disgusting bastard that doesn't know how immoral his pleasure-seeking is- but maybe, par doing this, we can do better for ourselves.
Lillith, whose grandmother, the only source of familial l’amour since her immediate family could give two cents worth the shit about her, died a couple days ago. Emerret, a boy mocked constantly for his homosexuality at school, and recieving worse at home. Shanika, an Ivory Coast born-and-raised young woman brought to the wrong parts of America, where the White Supremacists roam free to degrade her racially and often, too often, sexually. Gavin, a young man who found out that the woman he loved so much aborted the beautiful life they had created together and then left him for another man. And there's me, a bastard daughter that's a shameful pariah to her birth father, an example of past slutty days to her mother, and a little pleasure toy for her stepfather.
We came here for release, to privately let our sorrows flood out of us as we let our blood flow from our bodies. But before we took our favored tools to our wrists, I had a sudden thought: is this even right? How do we get rid of pain par placing plus pain onto it? How are we punishing the perpetrators par keeping to ourselves the sins they committed on us and punishing our own beautiful bodies instead? What are we even doing?!
"Guys," I say meekly, the tense grip on my tool loosening. "I can't do this. We shouldn't do this. It...it just doesn't feel right. I mean, being emo is about expressing ourselves, shouldn't we be finding a better way to do that then besides hiding in a dark room and hurting ourselves for what others did to us?"
The others looked at me with many expressions: confusion, irritation, and then, thankfully, agreement. We all set had aside our blades and sat there quietly, contemplating what we should do instead.
"I like dancing," Shanika spoke up.
"And I like story-telling," Gavin said.
We all shared our interests and how we can express our emotions through our interests. aof course I know that this won't stop many of us from cutting at home-heck, maybe I would do so too when I get accueil to that disgusting bastard that doesn't know how immoral his pleasure-seeking is- but maybe, par doing this, we can do better for ourselves.
