We all used to be afraid of owning up to our mistakes. Always finding new excuses to dodge accusations, always shrugging our shoulders when a finger was pointed at us. Because back then, tiptoeing downstairs to steal a cookie from the cookie jar was the most scandalous thing we could do. The adrenaline rushed through our veins as we swiftly climbed up the stairs to our bedrooms without getting caught. Our rebelliousness was short-lived, however, when our mothers re-counted the batch and noticed that a cookie was missing.

But now, our mistakes leave a deeper scar--not only on ourselves, but on others as well. We've learned to manipulate hearts, make excuses for our absence, and keep people waiting in the shadows because of our indecision. But one thing remains the same; we still shrug when being accused.

As children, we felt the need to lie because we were afraid of the consequences that came with
telling the truth. We were selfish and wanted to protect ourselves. But as we get older, we feel the need to lie because we are afraid of hurting somebody else by telling the truth. We are selfless and want to protect others.

Last summer, you were sporting short shorts, a tank top, flip flops, and a smile so big it took up half your face. You used to frolic about the beach with your best friends, pushing each other around and teasing each other about the boys with tousled hair and dreamy eyes. You were happy then. Your hair wasn't an issue, nobody made remarks about the blackness of your skin, and you got along with everybody.

You heard so much about high school, and were more than excited to push past the doors to your supposed freedom. The first few days weren't too bad, until you realized that you had nobody to giggle and whisper with. All around you were beautiful girls with tan skin and blonde hair--so different from your brown skin and braids. And when you stood beside the girls with dazzling eyes and bright smiles, you couldn't help but feel inferior. When you became aware of their narrow waists and thin legs, you began pinching at your stomach and ******* in--trying to be just like them.

Just last year, you were the most outspoken girl in your whole class. Suddenly, your voice has gotten lost somewhere in your throat. Your anxieties fluctuate, and your stress increases. But you find
comfort in the contents of your fridge and sub-consciously begin eating and eating and eating until you feel satisfied. Here you are, undressed, standing before the mirror, staring at the number that has appeared on the scale in disgust. Nobody will ever love me, you think to yourself, as you point out all your flaws.

Your mother throws dresses your way, but you refuse to wear them. Some girls offer invitations to parties, but you decline. Why? Because you feel too unattractive for anyone. You feel undeserving of any love or inclusivity whatsoever. The old you is gone. Your confidence has evaporated and your self-esteem has disappeared.

It's strange how much someone can change over the course of one year.

The Bad Kids were the ones your mother warned you about. The kids with messy hair and ***** fingernails as well as thoughts. The ones that rode their bikes with no helmets and looked the other way when their parents called their names. But you couldn't resist, could you? You couldn't stay away from the girls who stuffed their bras and twirled cigarettes in their fingers as if they didn't have coughing fits whenever they exhaled.

They took you under their wing and promised to show you what it really meant to live. You followed, unaware of all the danger you might face. And when the girls with alcohol on their breaths took your hand and led you behind the dumpster to smother you with kisses, not once did you think about your mother's warnings. And when the boys who wore their pants low and kept switchblades in their pockets pressured you into robbing the local convenience store, you felt on top of the world, didn't you?

Everything seemed perfect then. You finally had friends that liked you for you and thought you were 'cool'. Little did you know that all they wanted from you was what you could do for them. They didn't really care about you, no matter how much you tried to convince your mother that they did. When your so-called friends finally realized that you were too good of a kid to be a part of their group, they kicked you to the curb and left you stranded. You spent day after day begging them to take you back, but they stared you down with their cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Your mother waited for you by the door with her hands on her hips. When you walked in with your head lowered, sporting a torn bandanna and a leather jacket, she chuckled.
"I told you so."

I've built my walls so high
that they had no other option
but to come crashing down.

I used to think I was immune to tears,
but here I am, drowning my sobs
within the sound of the running bathwater.

I must say, I'm a great actress.
All those fake smiles and all that fake laughter.
Nobody would have ever guessed that I was a mess on the inside.

I thought I was stronger than this.

This is my hair.
This is my soul.
Can you see the difference?

My skin colour does not define me,
nor does my hair.
Whether it is in braids
or in its natural state.

But really, what is a soul?
Is it a door that has yet
to be unlocked?
A bird still learning to fly?
If so,
I am still awaiting my freedom.

Listen to my words.
Look at my face.
At first glance,
would you ever assume that I was capable
of eloquent speech?
Would you be surprised
if I named to you all the books I've read?

It's only human instinct to judge.
Understand that what you see on
T.V shouldn't be your reality.
Accept that stereotypes for any race,
gender or ethnicity aren't necessarily true.
Recognize that none of your
hateful words will steal my happiness.

This is my hair.
This is my soul.
I am a human being, slowly being made whole.

No matter what I do, or who I am surrounded by,
I am still somewhat alone.
Alone in my mind, alone in my soul.

Solitude is not so bad.
It's when you are by your lonesome that you
can truly reflect.

You think about could haves
and should haves, regrets and mistakes. But you also
think back to your happiest days--the ones you forgot
to write about in your journal.

I walk down the empty sidewalks,hands deep in my
winter jacket's pockets, and sit
by myself at a park bench.

Yes, I am a lone flower who has yet to blossom.

When I think of the Congo,
I think of the blue skies and the
warm weather. Not the child soldiers
patrolling the streets, and not the
poverty lurking in every corner.
I see my old friends hopping
down the dusty streets
with bright smiles on their faces,
and mud on their torn jeans.

When I think of the Congo,
I see my brother and his friends as
children, kicking a beat-up
soccer ball on the patchy grass.
I see my sisters posing for
photographs in their bright dresses
beside the tall trees.

The more I think
about the country I was
born in, the more nostalgic I get. My heart
longs to come back to a place where
only few know my name. A place where
I can only be who I truly am. A part of me
wants to go back to my Congo,
the one they never show you,
just to say "I'm home."