Second class, B-rate citizen.
Is that who I am?
right now, I feel so small;
the way they look,
the way they stare,
the way they gossip
while you're not there.
Judged from head to toe,
on what you wear,
Not what you know,
Not who you are,
Not your opinions, beliefs, thoughts.
Sparse.
Is that how I feel?
Scattered across for someone else's appeal,
their smirks of smugness,
looking down from up there.
Not Heaven.
Just airs that they've claimed for their own.
And people say:
"Just ignore it."
And parents say:
"We've all been through it."
And teachers say:
"There's nothing to it."
But you know differently,
the hurt,
the tears that follow,
the shame of breaking down at names.
You taught yourself to build that house
of sticks and stones,
thinking it was stable,
steadfast against the drone.
But life goes on.
You grow up.
Carrying, like Christopher,
the other half of you:
the half that cries,
the half that hurts,
the half that you yourself despise.
the second class, b-rate citizen half.
