My Bottle For The Built Up Emotion

Something Of A Pariah

I step out of the light that blinds every part of my body, burning not my skin but my mind. I step back, and back farther only to realise this isn't a spotlight but a whole room full of light that sheds from the holes where people's eyes should be. It's not the kind of light that drowns out darkness. It's of the social variety. The socialites cast the social light upon the social outcast. I am the pariah. And whilst that sounds elegant and stunning, it's of no light source. It's a beautiful word in a dim way. Such a damp definition for the title I've deemed. The flashlight eyes of my peers cause the heat of the sun to arrive in my bones, the temperature an artist; painting a less than pretty tone of ruddy pink across my structured cheek bones. But not all art is beautiful. The heat causing sweat to drip down my back like a form of water torture. A torture I'd find much more pleasing if it was actual torture and not a mechanism of my own mind creeping in on my insecurities; if it wasn't my own self causing this discomfort. Maybe if I was a saviour, a messiah, I wouldnt feel the brush of embarrassment stroke against my skin. A messiah, opposed to a pariah. A socialite rather than a social dark, antisocial doesnt quite hit the mark. I've been put in a box, one labeled with a worn out sharpie stating to all that I am bathed in a light I don't belong. Hiding myself from this social light under which most bask. Give me an atmosphere to which I can relate and maybe this invisible mask deeming me out cast might disappear showing my true identity as confident and convivial. Maybe everything I've said is nothing more than trivial.