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The Bitter Taste Of Narcissus

By , Ithaca, NY

Why doesn’t anyone understand me? Besides
My fellow social-justice-warriors who spend hours traversing tumblr.
I am different from almost everyone else on this slowly-heating-up
(it’s the Republicans) planet
my multiple piercings (ears and mouth and nose),
neon green hair (a shade which I had to special order), and
the smell of pot (I have a expensive bong) which is
permanently united with my clothing,
prove this.
like my bernie sanders’ sticker (I am politically aware and stand out in Hippie Town)
bad grades (I refuse to participate in this broken social system- like every other kid in my grade)
and scars (kitchen knife, razor, broken pen) which line my wrist-
I show them off in short-sleeved shirts
I admire them in the bathroom mirror and
when another punky-colored hair kid comes out of a stall, I (yell) at them to stop looking at me Like that.
I talk loudly about my mental health issues (I tried to kill myself, three times), though
it could be triggering for any number of my ‘peers’, in
English class (people taunted me because I was fat, how malicious) and
start sobbing, while eating (peanut m&ms), making twenty-three other students promise
not to tell anyone else about my impromptu unpaid therapy session (No one else is ever bullied)
They console me, even though,
I have made fun of them all at one time or another.
(What? She looked snobby, and he was preppy)
I have threatened to beat up my social-studies teacher,
multiple times. Hey,
I wasn’t the one who started the argument (I shouldn’t have been in trouble),
Besides, (He was smug and judgmental)
I write the most beautiful, original poems in the world on
my bathroom mirror (grimy) and in (red) lipstick about
how I have the hardest life of all. I only need to open my thesaurus twice for this.
All of these things show how different I am.
No one in this school understands me.
They are all sheep, in their mundane lives, and I am the black sheep, always,
unwillingly, standing out.
As I watch, high above, smoking cigarettes (the risk of cancer is worth the status high)
The tiny girl who broke down screaming and crying because her parents are sending her to
an asylum-
she doesn’t understand me,
a square peg not fitting into round hole
The red haired boy with terrific acne who tried to stab that stoner kid in English class-
he doesn’t understand all the emotions bundled up inside me
The scarred trans-girl who always breaks down crying-
she doesn’t understand how hard it is that my parents don’t truly know me.
The chubby brown-haired boy, who was raped twice before the age of fourteen
he doesn’t understand my fear of human beings, going home.
The seventeen year old girl who has a nine month old baby-
she cannot possibly understand the fears I hold about my future.
The boy with bones sticking out from his clothing and a head appearing too big for his body-
will never understand the agony I feel when I may have overeaten.
The blue-haired freshman who writes poetry on her hands and wears skimpy clothing-
she is a poser; like the the rest of my class-
Unlike me 
No one will ever understand me, for
I stand out, different from the rest,

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