They're always like, "Oh you're a good kid."
And there's always the ever present, though silent "but".
"But you wear a lot of eyeliner..."
"But the bands you like are so…different."
"But, you seem to like the color black a lot."
Usually accompanied with an awkward smile as the speaker tries to laugh, passing it as a joke, or a nonchalant comment.
And I always sigh, mentally bang my head against a brick wall, and ask "Why the heck do I have to deal with these people?"
When I was younger I was told never to judge a person before I really knew them. And I try. And just recently I was told that how I dressed, or what I liked would effect my relationships with people.
Okkkayy....so these people don't really know me. Or they refuse to accept who I really am.
Which brings up the sardonic "Well, who are you then?"
And I calmly glare at the person, fiddle with the safety pins in my ears, make sure that my bangs are still in my face, and check for the millionth time to see if my converse match my skinny jeans. And the person coughs because I'm making it all so awkward.
"Well," I drawl "I am 4 foot 11. I like metalcore, screamo and crunk punk bands. I play piano. I buy more eyeliner than anyone I know. If I could, I'd live in Hot Topic. My favorite color is black. If it can fit in the holes, I'll wear it in my ears. I love guys that wear skinny jeans. I swear a lot, and my mind is in the gutter ninety nine percent of the time. I get moody, not depressed. I love black licorice, the red stuff tastes like crap. Death does not scare me, it pisses me off. Play me good music that I haven't heard before and I'll be your best friend. Be taller than me and give awesome hugs, I will worship you. Anti my favorite bands? Kiss my butt. I wanna be a rockstar. I wonder if anyone will love me for who I really am."
And the person stares, and I have to sigh again.
Then they say, "But who are you really? Inside?"
Then I have to think, because every time it's a different answer.
"I," I say slowly, still concentrating on the idea of who the heck I really am. "I show who I am on the outside. I'm that last kid in the line, looking at her shadow on the cement ground of the playground at school. She feels that warm sun, and for a moment forgets that she's the last person in line. She closes her eyes for a moment, and thinks, what it would be like to be the sun. To shine out of the darkness. And then the line is moving, and her shadow grows as she moves away. Inside there is a fire, hotter than the sun. Brighter, and stronger than the sun. She is the universe, she is star dust, she is..."
I lose my words.
"In English? Please?" The person says, struggling to understand me.
I start to walk away, not thinking.
"Who am I?" I mutter to myself. "Truly and wholly?"
I pull out my iPod and hit shuffle, feeling the power of the guitar chords and grinning like an idiot.
"I'm a dream."