Like your general
teenage “rebel”
I always have to make a point,
take a stand,
dare to be different.
Yet, I'm so lonely...
I'm so afraid...
this is who I am.
This is me.

Mousey face,
wide eyes, like a deer
trapped in headlights,
containing endless irises,
blending with my pupils
like microscopic chameleons.
Short blonde hair,
fresh from a box of Revlon,
blending perfectly with my
stark white skin
and fair complexion.
I'm a mutt of all cultures,
call me some sort of
special weirdo.

I like the dusty gray haze
within his eyes,
resembling a merciless storm,
mostly black,
smothering the sky within them,
like the intoxication of smoke.
Like the nicotine that calms me,
like the challenges
life hurls at me.

I'd like to live my life freely,
to float amongst
the brisk winter air,
to live and to breathe,
to die knowing
that I've lived,
at least once.

I watch my life fly by,
passing me by,
each and every day.
I swear it's a nightmare,
or that I must've died,
each and everyday,
and this is what my Hell
is actually supposed to feel like,
but the illusions are too vivid,
and it's all sickeningly real.

I've been downgraded
from such a vibrant socialite
to that weirdo
with the crippling anxieties,
to the one whose sorrow
drags them down into
treacherous depths,
forcing them the relive every
painful memory.
Fear that makes me live
in the back-alley shadows,
like the lowly rats and stray cats,
I am alone.
I always long for the company
of another being,
there's always a boy,
there's always a “forever”,
my heart always gets broken.

Maybe the fact that I come
from an almost
peacefully dysfunctional family
evens out all of my crazy.
My mom and I,
two of a kind.
It's almost kind of wonderful,
how arguments turn to laughter,
I'd swear we're neurotic.
As much as we don't get along,
she's got such a kind heart,
buried under the stress of motherhood.
She can't say no to a donation,
can't say no to a stray creature;
fish, dogs, cats, birds, caterpillars,
you name it, we own it.

A day in my home life
is fairly average.
Eat, sleep, go out,
repeat it all again and again.
It all seems so perfect
on the surface.
Sometimes I don't understand...
it's almost too normal.

I throw things at clocks
wishing my future could be now,
that I'd be in SCCC,
taking on community college,
setting myself up for the culinary arts.
Guaranteed I'll be obese by 2020,
working with food and all.

My life may not be a dream,
it goes from that,
to morphing into a sickening reality,
but it's these particular things
that keep me breathing.
This, this is me.