A weeping boy covers his face in shame
He takes the razor and carves his “name”
In his leg

He digs deeper and ignores the pain
He feels the blood but “no pain, no gain”
He cries even harder

He is finished and starts to shake
Not from the damage he did make
But from the words that spin ‘round

He looks at his handiwork in the reflection
He lets it dry and covers it so no one will mention
This word and many others destroy him one cut at a time