Written: 21/5-2017
Autumn, 2009
Squeaking rubber shoes,
booming music,
panting children.
Thousands of sleepless hours, like threads in sun-bleached seats.
Thousands of droplets on flushed skin, like dew on sun-bleached tomatoes.
Thousands of thoughts in sick girl's head, like scribbled words in sun-bleached notebooks.
Thousands of monsters in tired mind, like lies in sun-bleached bibles.
"You look like a tomato."
And this was the first time they made fun of her appearance.
And this was the first time she noticed that the monsters were still there.
And this was the first time she wished she was someone else.
The sickness made her weak,
her body,
her mind,
her soul.
The sickness made her unable to fight,
the comments,
the stares,
the thoughts.
She was scared.
Of falling tears,
of breaking voices,
of shattering minds.
And that's why.
Why she couldn't step out of the shower.
Why she couldn't utter a word.
Why she couldn't stop sickening laughs from forming.
In case her tears would fall.
And in case her voice would break.
And in case her mind would shatter.
Laughter filling passing seconds, weak smile filling freckly cheeks.
An empty laugh escaped her dry lips, as she said that she knew it was weird.
Red towel wrapping red body, wet feet tiptoeing wet floor.
Clothes being put on in a hurry.
"Your hair is so pretty."
And tears making the beige room all blurry.
Soaked feet slipping into torn shoes, open backpack slung over shoulder.
Door slamming shut,
letting angry voices drown in silence.
White converse against dark asphalt,
bare skin against white converse,
broken thoughts against big monsters,
big monsters against broken girl
Lips stretching wide,
letting pained girl hide in plastic.
Thin skin painting shoes in the same colour as sun-bleached tomatoes.
And she ran home,
greeting her mother with a wide smile.
Because if you tell someone that can't understand,
and if you tell someone that can't relate.
They'll laugh at you.
And they'll tell you that you should be grateful,
because there's always people who have it worse than you.
And from then on,
she hated comments.
The way she dressed,
the way she looked,
the way she smiled.
She hated comments.
The way he stuttered,
the way he daydreamed,
the way he breathed.
But,
most of all,
she hated compliments.
Her hair,
her skin,
her eyes.
They were all fake,
her friends,
her teachers,
her strangers.
They made her feel uncomfortable.
They made her feel unwanted.
They made her feel ugly.
They never understood.
They never tried.
They were ignorant.
They were fake.
They were selfish.
But she wished,
that she could be like them.
She wished,
that she could be normal.
And she wished,
that she wasn't ugly.
Jokes turning into sleepless nights and soaked pillows.
Sleepless nights turning into dark circles,
soaked pillows turning into dark secrets.
Dark secrets turning into darker secrets.
Darker secrets turning into pitch black loneliness.
And from then on,
P.E filled the girl's chest with an addictive emptiness.
And it was terrifying.
And she loved it.
---
Sometimes,
I wonder why I still cry over this.
But it hurts.
A lot.
And what hurts the most is that they,
the people I comfort,
are the ones that still laugh at me.
Because it doesn't hurt if someone laughs at your skin colour,
because you're white.
And white people can't get hurt.
And it doesn't hurt when someone jokes about your hair colour,
because you should know it's a joke.
And jokes don't hurt.
At all.
And if you ever say it hurts,
you're just an attention whore.
Pretending to be depressed,
for attention
for sympathy,
for love.
Because white people can't get hurt.
And you shouldn't take jokes to heart.
Because jokes don't hurt.
At all.
YOU ARE READING
sun-bleached seats.
De Todoand he was just as broken as the sun-bleached seat he sat on.
