The hand raised above you, prepsared to strike has seen this motion before. The pain of neglect, the burden of an outcast is shared. The bruises are the same, but come from different aggressors. How different are we? You, the strong, and I, the weak. In the balled fist there is pain, behind the destructive language, there is separation, behind the malicious eyes, there are tears.

The ones who abuse us, the merciless who show no remorse, are no more evil than ourselves. The virus of hatred spreads from parent to child, from child to us. I ask you; what kind of existence is that? What kind of life causes one to know no sympathy, only callous cold?

As you stare at the pills in your hand, they stare at the rope. As you nurse the wounds of the flesh and the mind at night, they receive them anew. Two dark rooms, two pained bodies, two tortured souls.

What you hear in words and feel in actions from them, they receive from parents, guardians, ‘friends’ or siblings.

Those words echo through them until they can release.

“You shouldn’t have been born.”

“No son of mine will be some fruit.”

Their words carry, from person to person, spreading, hurting.

“Get some friends.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Loner!”

“Nerd!”

They cry for help, but only hurt. They seek solace, but only push away. Who is to blame? Why does this continue? Why must so many suffer? Why must lives be lost? Where will the pain end? You may move on, but they remain. The fist raised above your head is simply a mirror image. The slurs shouted at you are but an echo. Perhaps there is no reconciliation; perhaps there is no end to this chain. But maybe there can be. Only when you understand them, only when they seek release from their prisons, may the fist be lowered.

When they are free, you may be as well. Learn to forgive, and remember to protect.