We sit in a compact circle, a group of five of the saddest bunch ever known to man, with blades of many varieties gripped in our hands as if these were our lifelines. I glanced at the people around the circle, all here to jiunge the Cutting Chain, and all here for differing reasons.
Lillith, whose grandmother, the only chanzo of familial upendo since her immediate family could give two cents worth the shit about her, died a couple days ago. Emerret, a boy mocked constantly for his homosexuality at school, and recieving worse at home. Shanika, an Ivory Coast born-and-raised young woman brought...
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