I am a lone conformist
in a sea of rebels,
a favorite jeans girl
among mini skirts and heels,
a shaking introvert
crowded by egos,
a repenting Christian
amid unique atheists,
a clean straight edge
avoiding her glassy-eyed ex-friend,
a comfy sneakers girl
amongst flat-soled converses,
an unmasked face
in an aerosol atmosphere,
a broken voice
lost behind confident nothings,
a whole body
beside Chinese tattoos
and piercings.

There I am
hovered over my diary:
a scrap piece of paper
that listens.
There I realize
I’ve forgotten everything.
There I don’t speak
to a cute, friendly stranger.
There I shake and stutter.
There I let them all know
I don’t drink or do drugs,
and don’t plan to.
There I confirm
that I’m a virgin
and plan to be for a while.
Oh, no, I’m not ashamed,
but their eyes make me afraid,
the lump in my throat
makes me nervous,
my un-tampered
un-eyeliner-ed face
feels warm.

No wonder
only the good die young.
 
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