I walk down the halls of my highschool. Whispers flood. "Look at her! She's so damn emo." one whispers to the other. "I heard she slits her wrists," the other whispers back. I shake my head. My eyes on the floor. They don't understand. They judge. They Label. They don't know me. I look at my arms. A sweatshirt covers the pale white skin stained red. I know what lies under the fabric. Scars. Cuts. Open wounds. If we were meant to be labeled wouldn't there be a barcode there instead?