November 22, 2017

Her teachers watch her with a strange curiosity, the child that refuses to talk yet seems to be filled to the brim with the desperate need to speak, to say something. Even her silence is not quiet, the quick tapping of her hand and the way she flits her eyes across the room, both radiate nervous energy.

Sometimes she is two different people torn between the girl who breathes witty remarks and can never stop giggling, this girl is argumentative. She is unadulterated passion. She is perpetually in motion, her fingers tapping out songs on an imaginary key board.

The other girl is still in her seat. Her eyes watch coldly, almost mockingly, at the laughter of her classmates. She knows they think she is dumb. She has something to prove. Her words are calculated and untelling. The stories she so vividly describes are carefully altered, revealing nothing.

So she watches the world, ankles crossed, always in the front of the room. More often than not, she is lost in her own daydream. The girl is forever obsessed with defining herself. She is not a compilation adjectives though.

She is the way that she falls in love so easily. She is the freckles splattered across her face and piercing eyes that change from green to brown. She is tall, too tall, and thin, too thin. She is the way she admires her father. She is the peculiar combination of classical, rap and pop music. She is the race to the finish line, shoving others aside because it is necessary.

She is the pages of the books she reads, and the TV show characters that she is so entranced with. Her room is blue, but that has never been her color. She is deep red. She is standing up for unpopular opinions. She is used to the rumors that follow her but do not define her. She is chanting the lyrics to her favorite songs as loud as possible. She is the refusal of fear because it serves her no purpose. She is crying and screaming in her own head, never out loud.

She is red.

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