Us.

Us.

You.
with your pretty clothes
and your satin faces
and your hair all done up
nicely.

You.
the centre of the universe
shining so desperately
caught up in the
rush.

You.
part of the tribe
out of your minds
always wearing the
war paint.

Us.
the sharp edges
the ones you didn’t want to touch
the ones that don’t need
anyone.

Us.
the ones that never quite fitted
the ones you whispered about
when they left the
room.

Us.
the awkward and the sad
scraping through adolescence
tripping over their own
insecurities.

Us.
we’re very sorry
and very tired
of trying to be like
you.

(Written when I was twelve. I was right.)