Who are you to decide who I am?
Go ahead, label me.
I wear glasses? Fine. I’m a nerd.
You don’t see the grades I actually get.
I’m quiet? Well, that makes me a snob.
You’re not around to hear them tell me my opinion doesn’t matter.

My best friend is pregnant? I guess that makes me promiscuous by association.
I’ve never had a boyfriend? Well then, of course, there must be something wrong with me.
I’m skinny? Too skinny? I have to be anorexic, then.
I live in a nice neighborhood, and my family is in a good financial standing? I must be living the perfect life.
You’re not there to here the screaming, the yelling, the constant chaos that takes place in my home.
Is it really even a home anymore?

I hide in my room, if at my house at all.
There’s time I don’t eat dinner because I’m too afraid to walk down the stairs,
Too afraid of the cold, cruel stare that waits on the couch, can of beer in hand.
You don’t know me.
You don’t know the pain I go through, and the strives I take to hide it.
I force a smile on my face day after day, never burdening anyone with my problems.
But that doesn’t matter.

I’ve never really been a part of your group, have I?
I’ve never rose up to your impossible expectations, so of course I’m not worthy of your time.
Why should you get to know me?
There’s nothing special about me to see.
Not to you, anyway.
It’s easier to judge others, than to look upon the flaws of yourself.

So go ahead, label me.
I’ve been through worse.
On a daily basis I deal with worse, and I’m sure there is worse to come.
So go ahead, label me.
You’re just somewhere that I’ve been.
You’re words can’t hurt me anymore.
Only I decide who I am.