|theplayinmyhead by Jamilla Touré|
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They try to label us, but they try in vain. We are label-less. We are not popular. But we are social. We are not outcasts. But we stand apart. We are not intelligent. We are deep. We are not silly, we are free.
The only thing we have in common with them are the masks we wear. But ours are darker. Ours are sliced in half. Like our wrists. Like our hearts.
They call us punks, or goths, or simply freaks. Because of the things we do, the clothes we wear. Our self-mutilation. Done by knife or needle or ink. It doesn't matter. To them it's just a game. If they get game-over, they can start again.
To us it's simply life. To us, game over is the only escape. Yet, at the same time, game over is the cowardly way, and we scorn, spit on it till our tainted saliva seeps through the false fabric.
All these little things we do. Like piercing our bodies. Like tainting our skin. Like giving our bodies freely to those that we think care.
These little things we do. Like pulling the knife across our skin and watching the blood well up over the skin and overflow, spilling.
These little things we do, like writing stories of death, and drawing pain in it's purest form. They are simply declarations. I am Sora. We are here. Here is now. Now is hell. But then I figure, might as well make hell as pretty as heaven.