Every day I walk
to school
in short shorts and
black socks,
black shoes,
a black sweatshirt and
a black bandana woven beneath
golden blonde hair.

And on days when
the sun blazes
turning concrete into
rivers
they wonder.

Did I etch into my skin
the silver ink
of shame and
alienation?

Do the words
and the hurt still
run liquid red beneath the
heavy black fabric?

They are so quick
to judge and call me
‘Emo’ or
‘Goth,’
to think that I
would take up the sword
against myself and
inscribe a history
of self-hate or
perpetual misery.

But they’re never stopped
to consider--

maybe even on hot days
the icy bite of loneliness
clings to my limbs
and never leaves, or that

perhaps I want to be invisible,
fade into the shadows
like the very essence of my
self-esteem and dignity

only shadows of what I
used to be.