I was a smart child
who talked and talked.
A young child who was "precos"
Whose chatting would not stop
like a lawyer I spoke,
so my family, and old friends said...
"You speak very smart
you should become a Scientist,
a Teacher or Social Worker,
or maybe a Manager at a store in the new Mall."
" Or  you should be an Attorney, you like to talk a lot." And everyone laughed. I was amusing to them.
Poor ******* child.

My friends also laughed about me liking to talk to people and being so friendly and naive.
It  seemed so weird to them
that I could talk to stranger and even in a foreign accent, or a language different to them.

So I stopped talking. I became shy and cold
I would not say a word
and withdraw into myself,
Everyday more and more.

I could no longer be me
or as I used to be.
So I read and read
long collections of books.
Then I  wrote, and wrote.
Hoping to become a writer.
And one day publish a book.

I wrote, day dreamed, and became quiet
and silent.
Some "friend" mocked on my back,
there were no longer invitations
to "cool kids" parties.
I still loved to dance
But soon it all became part of my past.

They then called me antisocial
and crazy.
A Looser with a big L on the forehead.
I became sort of an outcast.

And if I broke the shell
and showed myself
they all would all laugh,
as if I was some sort of little mascot,
or a class clown, which I was way far from that.

And it hurt me deeply into my core
being so misunderstood.
I used to be happy, and cool, and popular
but bad rumors were spread
and soon my joy was stepped all over,
my life was over,
and my future doomed.

Just because I talked to and smiled at strangers
and thought everyone was a friend,
I was labeled crazy and easy.
I was so naive then.
I trusted someone and was betrayed.
Big mistake!
Such a big price I had to pay.

But I turned silent, withdrawn into myself.
I was this little "ice princess" made of plastic
who draw in class, wrote fiction monsters, and day dreamed.

I was no longer ready to talk back or fight.
The fire in me had being shut off.
There was no longer fireworks in my eyes.
And at night
I had terrible nightmares,
my only true friend and confidant was my mom.

At school an old friend said,
_ "You have to literally be slapped once for you to talk and slapped twice for you shut up."_
That was supposedly said as a joke.
But somehow it hurt.

But she was right.
I was chatter box sometimes
who talked a lot, who sang and danced to the rain and the moon. Who smoked and was pretty "cool".
And other times, when I was sad,
I would just shut up,
stay awake late, hoping the night was never over.  
And I would read and write and write,
under an old flashlight.

And they saw the circle under my eyes,
my sleepy quiet stare at the school's florescent lights,
and they called me crazy
because I refused to talk.
I chose to  to smoke, to drink, to love, to paint, and write.