I was already stung full of insecurities.
I was the type of awkward, which was forever called ‘booty shorts’, because they didn’t know my name. I was born in California, considered to be snobby and rich. They didn’t give me the time to be myself. It wasn’t my fault I was born in that state. The state with the sign “Hollywood” claiming to be the best when it was like a dumpster, stuffed to its limits with Beverly Hills spilling over its sides. The stars with names carved in dirt plastered on its filthy surfaces, their handprints decorating the mud around.
It’s Florida’s fault for not giving a warm welcoming. I remember walking into its halls with open arms because I didn’t know how to be mean. California never taught me that, it had no reason to. All I wanted was Floridas acceptance. I was left alone on the playground, swinging on rusty metal, nothing but background noise, and I wondered if when I spoke, I made a sound. I was alone because I was racist that needed to realize my place. I was use to giving suggestions but these girls wouldn’t take it; they ruined it for me, holding grudges for four years. Everyone they encounter they would bring up how racist I was. She hates black people. Because of the, I didn’t have friends.    
            When sixth grade started I was gaining friends, ones that I still have today.  I was always the loudest one on the bus, always giggling in class; I was the exact opposite of what I had been. I thought that I finally found my place here. When I discovered makeup, I bought skin color beauty, which was guaranteed to destroy flaws. I decorated my eyelid in black eyeliner, its sharp edge, long wing, taking up most of my eye. People would laugh at me exclaiming that I looked like a clown. My friends said that everyone gets called names, and that kids can be cruel.
            But, I got called them all.
It got worse by the day, I would cry on the bus, over and over again, my head falling between my knees. Each year I promised myself I wouldn’t cry in public, but when I would hear, she’s hideous. I couldn’t help it. At that time, I had a friend who carried around scissors, and I would see him in his black hoodie drawing pretty red pictures on his wrists. I swallowed all my emotions down, giving him only my time, so I could forget about myself. I knew I was being a hypocrite when I gave him all that advice, because I was doing everything he was. We both enjoyed it. 
            School isn’t fun anymore. Are you a boy or girl? I can’t tell. I didn’t wake up on time for a reason; I didn’t go for a reason. I don’t like living anymore, and they reminded me why every day. Kill yourself. I wanted to kill the girl I  became. I wanted to kill her metaphorically, kill her in ways that I was fascinated with, ways I would be scared to attempt. I wasn’t that girl who lived off her mother’s saying of words would never hurt me.
            Today, I’m still alone. I’m still broken, designed in scars or newly formed cuts. I’m hiding broken promises in my pockets, wrapping myself in my tattered skin hoping to escape. I express myself through writing now, my love for music now forgotten. Written words are my only friends, they don’t judge, they listen.