It started with a
girl siting in the dark of her room, crouched on the floor in
the corner. She scribbled down a list of questions with a
two-inch stub of a pencil she discovered in the pocket of her
scuffed jeans. All these thoughts raging in her head, bashing
against the walls, words of her friends, her
family…
“Why
do you enjoy hurting me so much?”
Well I wouldn’t exactly call smelling your own burning
skin enjoyable, but hey, if it takes the demons
away…
In reality, if you ask her why she does something, she suddenly
has mixed feelings about the truth. You see, because no matter
who we are – boy or girl, fat or skinny, straight or gay,
bullied or bully, or anything in-between – we’re
all believing some kind of lie. And she’s afraid
she’s the source of one or more of those
lies.
