Me.

Its not as simple as most people would think to define me.

I am a 5'5, glasses wearing, brown skinned, Fandom loving, self hating, freak.

At least that is the way that I define me.

I love the smell of gasoline, hate hypocrites,  and sometimes talk to much Even though I think I'm not talking enough but then someone tells me to slow down  or shut up and now I just realized I'm talking to much.

I stutter when I'm nervous, I smirk at the wrong times, I  can't hear in my left ear.

But this isn't me.

At least not the heart of me, because even though I may feel those things on the inside Its just a mask to cover the breaks in my old one.

The reality of things to me is that I'm afraid.

I constantly look over my shoulder looking for those who attack me on the daily.

I sit in my  closet and cry until  I feel my body falling to pieces, wretched from my lips are the cries of despair and pain that I  hold back.

But the smile?

That damn smile that I have to put on my face  and act  like I'm okay even though I am screaming for help!

Never is their a day that  I don't wake up and wish I was no longer here because at least  when I am dead I will not have to constantly worry that someone will destroy he last bit of everything I hold dear.

I will not act as though  am a saint because I am far from it, the scars on my body prove so  but I will Never be the girl who is just okay.

The girl who is okay with the bullying,

The girl who is okay with the abuse,

The girl who is okay with the rape,

The girl who is okay with not being allowed to feel comfortable in her own sexuality,

The girl who okay with not having a voice!

I am not that girl.

Never was, never will be,

I am not okay with these things.

Please do not treat me with kid gloves for yes I am as fragile as a china doll and if you drop me I might break but I will look pretty and smile through the tears.

Sometimes I feel like I haven't Breathed.

Like its been a decade since I last went to sleep.

Hell.

I feel like I haven't slept a day in my life for the worry the world puts on me.

Why do I starve myself to look like the girls who torment me?

Why do I ruin my skin with self harm scars because I need a way out?

Why do I try to commit suicide going on about the fourth time now?

Why am I crying for help and no one hears me?

I know I am one out of  the overpopulated world of 8.6 billion but please hear my voice.

My little, tiny, Indian mixed African American, Probably unheard voice.

So no I'm not all smiles, I'm not straight, and I'm definitely not okay but that is me.

That's How I complicatedly describe me.

And maybe its the end of me.

The me behind the mask, behind the band-aids, holding together the pieces.