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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I used to slit my arms open like I was peeling fruit—careful, slow, watching the skin give way like wet paper. The box cutter blade was dull, sticky from God knows what—maybe dried glue, maybe someone else’s blood—but it still did the job. I’d carve so deep the fat would bloom up like egg whites in spoiled yolk, yellow and trembling. I’d watch it jiggle while “Mama” played, the strings shrieking in the background like a haunted opera house. Blood would pool in the sink, thick as syrup, and I’d stick my finger in it and swirl. Not because I wanted to die—because I wanted to see what was inside me. What the hell was crawling beneath the skin. Maybe an eel. Maybe a scream. Maybe nothing. My parents told me to stop “acting out.” That music was poisoning me. But it wasn’t the music—it was the silence that did it. The way dinner felt like a graveyard and love was rationed out like medicine. They told me to smile. I told them I’d smile when the red stopped dripping. They called me sick. I called myself a disciple. Because Gerard Way sang in absolutes, like life was a wound you dressed in black velvet. He made agony theatrical, turned it into something holy. I cried listening to The Black Parade, and then I laughed. Not the happy kind. The hysterical, teeth-baring, I’m-still-here kind. I pressed the blade in until I could see the meat wiggle. Until I thought something might crawl out of me. And when it didn’t, I cranked “Sleep” until the walls shook. I heard voices too. Just like Gerard said. They never shut up. They told me to bleed more. They told me I wasn’t real until the blood said I was. But then “Disenchanted” played. And I saw it. The flicker. The -you. The faint heartbeat in the middle of the funeral. My wrist still open, but my lungs filling anyway. Because maybe the music was death. But it was also resurrection. I wasn’t emo because it was cute. I was emo because I was bleeding to feel something. Because when the fat split open and the blood hit the tile, I was finally louder than the silence. I scared myself. But I was still alive. And sometimes, that’s worse. Sometimes, that’s better. Pop feels like perfume on a rotting tongue, glitter in the lungs where the smoke’s still hung. Taylor cries cute in her radio cell, while I bleed real in a five-star hell. Cardi talks bags, talks labels, cash, I talk to the blade in the bathroom trash. They dress up pain in a synth-fed lie, while I press down ‘til the nerves go dry. Their heartbreak comes with a neon light, mine comes crawling at 2 a.m. night. A chorus of ghosts in my shattered head— not breakup songs, but the actual dead. And I laugh with them, cracked and insane, ’cause at least their screams match the sound of my brain. This isn’t a bridge, it’s a bloodstained spasm— a guttural hymn in a Godless chasm. You dance in clubs; I twitch in fear, you wipe mascara—I disappear. Your playlist glows with soft appeal, mine growls like wheels on hospital steel. I don’t want healing wrapped in lace, I want death songs to slap my face. Not some pop-star princess crying slow, but Gerard Way screaming go, go, go.They want us quiet—shiny, numb, and sold. They want pop hits and TikToks, voices dulled and cold. But we’ve seen too much, felt too much, and now we’re writing it on the walls in blood and black. The status quo is barf—plastic smiles and hollow souls, and a world that sells lies like candy in a sky full of holes. Music is dead, and politics is worse, and we’re carving our own verses into our skin, a twisted curse. This isn’t rebellion for show. This is survival, a brutal revival. This is a funeral for taste, a final adieu to a world that only pretends to care about the truth. You want a savior in a pop beat? We’ve got a revolution, fists clenching to the rhythm of chaos. You want a love song? Fine. I’ll love the part of me that refuses to shrink. I’ll love the ghosts that walk with me in black, and the way Gerard made grief feel like a scream, like a prayer. If the world wants me dead, let it write a better verse. Because I’m not afraid to keep on living. I’m just afraid it will keep feeding me the scraps of a poisoned song, calling that life.The status quo is a cocktail of bleach and regret, spilled on the floor in a plastic cup, still wet. Pop songs hum lullabies to the dead, while they sell us a dream where we all stay misled. Smile for the camera, fake your delight, because truth doesn’t fit in a tweet, does it, right? I’m tired of the polished, the plastic, the fake— the world’s gone numb, and I’m wide awake. The radio’s full of the same hollow tune, where autotuned lies come to serenade the moon. The politicians speak, their mouths full of , while we’re drowning in lies that they don’t admit. So I cut deep into the silence, and watch it spill— the blood of rebellion, the rage that won’t heal. I don’t care about their #hashtag trends— I want a revolution with no clean ends. This ain’t American Idiot, it’s global despair, because the status quo? It’s a nightmare we wear. I want my wrists to bleed truth, my eye blacked by the lies, and every song I hear to echo the cries of a world that sold us out to the richest thieves, leaving us with nothing but their golden leaves. I won’t fit in your perfect little box. You can take your filters and shove them down your throat, Fox. I’m the scream you buried under your TV screen, the bleeding heart that you’ve never seen. So play your hollow songs, make your empty noise, but know we’re the ones who’ll destroy and rejoice. We’ll keep the rage loud, keep the anthem strong, because we don’t fit in your world, and we’ve been here too long. So here’s my wrist. Here’s my black eye. Take a picture—maybe you’ll see the lie. Because I’m not the one who’s dead, not yet. I’m just the revolt you can’t forget.
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