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Whore.
Fat a**.
Freak.
Stupid.
Idiot.
Pig.
Those are my names. I have many more. But alas, I did not chose them. They were given to me. By others. By the world. I have been labled. For the world does not accept you for who you are, but for who they want you to be. Its what they want. They say whats normal. But havent you seen that normal has changed? Normal never stays the same. Nothing, no one, is normal. There is no such thing. Everyone is different, no matter how similar we may seem. And yet we are all the same. We are all connected and seperated. The freaks that we are, we are most isolated from the rest. The 'beautiful people'. But without us, how could you see how cruel the world is? How different we all are? It is a vicious cycle. We are not like you because we have been rejected. When we are rejected, we become more freakish. And as it happens, you ignore us. Because we are not like the others. They mock us. All we want is to be understood, to be loved, to be whole. We are empty. We are dead inside. But you dont even notice that we have exsisted until we have dissapeared. We are invisible. What are we to you but nusuinsaces? Just dirt on the sidewalk that you walk around as to not dirty your new shoes. Dust that you brush off of the mantle. You see us, but you do not notice us. You hear us, but you do not listen. You can touch us, but you do not feel us. We are the voices that no one hears. We are the people that no one sees. We are the enviornment that you have chosen to ignore. You have forgotten us, and would rather live your glamorous lives wishing that we dont exsist. But you do not think of us at all. We are nothing to you. I admire the black rose. Different in it's grim elegance, it is so alive, and yet so very dead. Like how we feel inside. Proclaimed condemmed by society, we have made our own. We may not know who the others are, we may never know their names. But inside we know that they exist. We co-inside without ever seeing each other. But we notice ourselves and the ones like us. We have united without coming together, yet we make each other whole. We are the pigmants of our own painting. If I was a painting, There would be a hole where my heart should be. I would have no eyes, and my mouth covered. My hands bound by wicker wire. My legs chained and shackled. A knife in my back, and a crown of barbed wire. My skin not white, or black, but red, from the staining of the blood you have shed of me. On the ground around me, shattered glass; the fragile casing wich had once held my heart. I have tried and failed to pick it up and put it back together, but it has been broken so many times, peices have been lost. They have fallen through the holes of the floorboards, never to be seen again.
We are the whores.
We are the fat asses.
We are the freaks.
We are stupid.
We are the idiots.
We are the pigs.
God save us.