I see you sitting there:



Crouched in the corner in the back of the bathroom, shivering with anticipation.
The bathroom has a fetid scent to it; the musty scent of blood and urine. You slowly pull up the sleeve of your long-sleeved T-shirt. You pause and look at your surroundings. The bathroom is deserted and old. No one is here at this time of day. With your shirt sleeved pulled up, you use your other hand to grab your tool out of your back pocket. A hint of a smile appears on your face as you examine the razor. To test the sharpness, you press the tip of your finger to the blade.


A drop of blood appears and you squirm. Finally, you take a deep breath and bring the blade down on your wrist. Slice. You never cut hard enough to kill yourself, but just enough to feel a tingling sensation. You do it once more and sigh in ecstasy. This is like your sex, your comfort food. It’s who you are. You’re emo. You’re a cutter.