The Cutters

The cuts aren’t working
But the pain is still lurking
No amount of help
Nothing but the endless sea of hell

“Do this” they say
But I forget the cause is normally of something of joy
They don’t see it that way
It’s just another ploy

The sibling is precious: so kind so sweet
But to see her on a personal level?
No. We shall never get to meet

The family is treasure: so strong so real
But to see it on a functional level?
No. We shall never come to agree

The friendship is iron: so true so unbreakable
But to see it in action?
No. Only in fractions

The community is golden: so warm so welcoming
But to see it hold through war?
No. Only its looting

The human race is chosen: so bonded so united
But to see it band together?
No. We shall only see our smiting

But my comfort isn’t the lacerations
Nor the talking
Or the game stations

It comes in a form so subtle
One where only the whispers are the spoken
Where the pen can be heard
Scratching out for tokens

Me among my people
We all understand each other
And all of us know
That each of us are cutters

Yet when the word spreads
Do any of us testify?
No, because we know
The results will terrify

Back to back, we hold ourselves
Arching to save our partner
But when the rain falls
So do we

And when the others see us flail
They watch us like a show
Hands are never extended
We hit the ground like snow

And speaking of extending hands
When do we get our olive branch?
Why isn’t ours there?
Probably because our blood will run it red

And speaking of the falling snow
People criticize us, they mock us
But what they don’t know, is we have no where else to go

Only the cutters understand one another,
We support one another,
But what does it come to?
Just losing one another

The leftovers are left for grieving
We must sweep up the shards
Our brethren had had it hard
And they couldn’t take it. Who could blame them?

We join by band
Our running love our bond
Yet the others won’t let us take the stand
So can we still stand strong?

Our numbers are blooming
Our side is swelling
When will the population start telling
Our story is one of their dooming

How can they stand so proud?
So true?
Doesn’t their own selves make them sick?
Always saying: “I don’t care about you”

We cutters stand in our own words
How can we not?
It’s our only place left in the world

But, what is a cutter?
Isn’t it the one who cut themselves?
Aren’t they the ones,
Who bathe in their sorrows through blood?

You just might say
They’re the swine of society
The ones who do nothing but sulk
But, I urge you, forget your stereotypical way

The cutter is a general word
A person who cuts something
But what is blurred
Our own skin?

No
Words are what matter
They create the literal flow

We cut the words from our minds
We swirl them into words that give spine
The words written are the ones cut
They create and destroy the ruts

We are the carvers
We are the creators
We are the destroyers
We are the writers

We are the cutters

So, I remind you
The cuts are not working
The pain is still lurking
There is no amount of help
In this endless sea of hell

What might be this hell?
Well, the answer is quite simple
It’s the world, of course
Or maybe the works of our remorse

Again, whatever the case may be
It doesn’t matter
It doesn’t matter
Just like how we don’t matter

We are the heroes of slashes
We are the unsung champions of harm
We are the writers of blood
We are the creators of pained arms

We are the writers
We are the cutters