Every school has that kid. You know the one. The one that can’t make it past security in an airport without taking off half his face. The one whose jeans are too tight and his shoes are too big. Of the hair that hasn’t been fried, it’s been dyed too many colors of the rainbow to be able to tell whether its supposed to be blue or green, and you really don’t care anyways. His shirts reminisce of old Hollywood Undead concerts and no matter the cost he’s always wearing a studded belt that makes him look just that much more depressing. He’s the type of guy you see at McDonalds politely, yet boringly, awaiting your order as you deicide if the Big Mac will make you butt look fat. Maybe you see him in the halls, maybe you see him at the mall, but you don’t give him a second glance. Don’t give him the time of day he yearns for.

You see him in his shell, all holed up. Putting up a shield that deflects all attempts to be social. And you never wonder why this is, you just take the easy route and figure he’s anti-social or too high to care about anyone but himself. But that’s not the case. His fingers are pure of weed. Never has he allowed the poison of beer to linger on his tongue. His scars are raw from being beaten a number of times by verbal insults that cut his flesh like a knife. And each time, his defense weakens, only if for a moment, before he builds it up again, stronger than the last time. It’s his adaptation. His only way to live without pain. And no one seems to understand why he wont break out of his shell and put forth the energy needed to make a friend. But it’s because…

…none of you have given me the chance.