{Note: possible trigger warning and language....}
You call me a 'freak',
a 'weirdo'.
a 'pathetic emo loser'.
Well guess what?
I don't care.
What makes you think I care?
Who are you to question me-
to judge.
You don't have that right,
that privilege.
You strut up to me-
fag in hand,
and always always,
In the same nagging,
persistent tone,
with the same words
that make me want
to claw my eyes out
in disbelief,
you ask to me...
"Do you cut youself?"
And it goes on,
and ON.
Pfft- like I haven't heard you.
...
I relent.
"Yes"
is always my reply.
Your tedious response,
as always,
is the same.
"That's sick!"
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-
i'm sick.
Look at me.
So my skin may be
a war-ground.
A treacherous field
of scars,
and flesh-wounds...
But so what?
This isn't for you.
This is for me.
My battle.
My struggle with myself.
You can't feel the pain I feel.
The torment.
...
Some of you...
Think you help.
Heres the thing.
The letters,
the phone calls,
The counseling sessions
with the toffee nosed bastards-
They help nothing.
They effect
not a
goddamn
fucking
thing.
Yeah-
I cut.
So what?
Got a problem?
There's the door.
This is me-
myself.
I CAN'T CHANGE THIS.
God made me this way.
So get over it-
get over yourselves.
Accept change,
differences to yourself.
Okay?
This is it.
So world-
fuck you.
I've had enough of this shit.
See you in hell.
