Ripping out of a Broken, Bleeding Heart

High school's a scary place when you're all alone. If you don't know a single soul, it's like being in the cold streets on a rainy day. You try to find your way through the fog and bigger people push by you, because they can't even see you through the clouds of their own world. But, being little, you get used to it. And even if you don't, what are you supposed to do? Say "Hey, watch where you're going!" When you're short and alone, those bigger people are scary.

But then again, to me, everything is scary. Being home alone, that's scary enough. So I don't make trouble if I can walk away. I like walking away because it means I still can, I haven't been hurt. No matter how many insults are thrown my way, no matter how many scars line my arm, if I can walk away afterwards...it means I'm alive.

But sitting in a class or the cafeteria or anywhere, that hurts a lot. Because when you look around, you see people in groups. People sitting with like people. Jocks who can talk about the sports and girls who can talk about boys. People like me tend to sit alone because when you're like me, you deny your likeness. You think "No, I'm not like her. We're different. It's not the same!"

Because people like me are hypocritical. Some of us can give advice to others but they never follow it. We can look all around us and say, "That person's depressed" but we can't label ourselves. Though I love when I'm called "Emo". What pray tell, is "Emo"? I'll tell you what it is. It's saying I'm emotional, that's what “Emo” stands for. It's the first 3 letters of emotional. So because I feel emotions, I'm a freak? So what do I do? I bleed out my emotions, allow the tears to seep out my veins instead of my eyes. Maybe then I won't be so obviously "Emo". But no, that makes me more "Emo". I'm so confused. I try to avoid being labeled but by doing so, I earn my label.

Maybe that’s a reason high school scares me so much. I lose my identity and become a thing. Even as I sit alone, I’m part of a group of people, a mob if you will. All with a lack of identities but each person in the “Emo” group denies being “Emo”. Is that what adds to our label? Our not wanting to be labeled? Anyway…so I sit alone at my table feeling this unfamiliar fear. It’s as if my body knows something will happen to me. It wants to run, of course, it always feels that way. That’s part of my fear. If I stay somewhere too long, danger will catch up to me.

The group of Jocks stand up and the cheerleader sluts cling onto their arms. Like they fear that if they let go for one second, they’ll lose him. Maybe that’s true and each girl knows it. Maybe that’s why their clinging becomes tighter as the jocks stop in front of my table. I don’t know why but my head looks down at that moment and my died black hair covers my eyes. Maybe it’s because it hurts to look at them. Them in their perfect world where the biggest worry is “Will we win the game?”.

The jocks speak but their words are slurred in my mind. I can barely hear them, but know what they say. They say what they always say to me and perhaps the other “Emo” people. They laugh at my dark hair first. It isn’t pretty like the cheerleaders hair is. Next they grab my arm and pull down my sleeve. They laugh about the scars that haven’t healed. Then they will taunt me for shedding tears.

Maybe if they stopped talking to me this way, I’d be able to stop dying my hair. If I didn’t dye it, it would be like the cheerleaders hair. If they stopped mocking me, the scars would heal. If they only stopped for one day, my tears would not be shed.