When I was younger,
My favorite color was black.
I hated pink.
All bright colors at that.
My clothes were large,
So you couldn't see my figure.
I hid my hands with sleeves,
So nobody could watch them shiver.
I hid my face with a mask,
So no one knew how I felt.
My "tough" personality,
Acted as the coat,
For a small frail child,
Who had been losing her hope.

In 7th grade,
My favorite color was pink.
It made me smile,
Even through tough weeks.
I wore fitted shirts,
To fit in with other teens.
I woke up early each morning,
To coat my face in makeup,
And feel a little more confident,
Surrounded by harsh teens,
With too many rude opinions.
Sweet compliments, quickly buried,
By verbal strikes.
Shot at me by teens,
Much prettier than me.

Now in 8th grade,
My favorite color is dark red.
But I still like pink,
And I still love black.
I wear fitted shirts,
And baggy pants.
Some days I feel tired,
Like I can't do anything at all.
On those days I wear whatever.
Just a large T-shirt,
And some dirty jeans.
I don't try as hard to fit in,
And I keep to myself.
All I want now,
Is to be left alone.
So I avoid the harsh comments,
Or the rude opinions.
That people who barely know me,
Feel the need to say out loud.