A pair of judgmental eyes,
“You're weird.”
I look down at my jean-capris,
She's wearing a revealing pair of baby-blue shorts,
A V-neck shirt, mine is a plain, baggy Tee.
I walk away puzzled, what's her problem?
In class, I finish my work and start drawing a dragon in my sketchbook,
It's coming out really good.
But then I heard them whispering:
“Weirdo.”
“All she draws is dragons.”
“Maybe she's a witch.”
My pencil freezes and I stare at them.
“I'm not a witch,” I say.
They fake shudders and giggle.
I stopped talking after that, it only made things worse.
Then I heard that medium and darker colors attracted less attention.
So I wore grays and dark blues.
My tormentors didn't quit.
So I tried the dreaded thing known as conformity.
I wore the tighter shirt and the skanky blue pants.
It was uncomfortable and I felt like a slut.
But worst of all,
I felt like some one else.
So I never did it again.
But when I looked in the mirror again wearing a gray shirt,
I gasped.
“I look so character-less! So dull! So... vulnerable.”
And out of the corner of my eye,
I spied the catalyst,
a black shirt.
I put it on and looked in the mirror.
I looked... right.
I looked unobtrusive, yet threatening at the same time.
So I didn't give up my dragons.
The populars and preps griped,
I started wearing a Celtic-knot necklace,
People without a life bothered and pissed,
I got a black-leather jacket,
They started petty bantering,
I widened my vocabulary,
they talked,
I sent them whimpering under rocks,
I made new friends, a lot of them like me.
That's why I changed,
That's why I wear black,
Because it has made my life smoother,
It has made me invincible,
It has made me ME.
This is Artemis Hunter's first submission to GothPunk.com(Munity).
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