Community,
they told me I
I was a part of it,
that I must comply.


We’re told to comply
in the way we speak,
in the way we interact,
in the way we feel.
Those who oppose,
those who stand
for a transcendental nature
are fitted with the title
of an Outcast.


An Outcast: A person
deemed unfit to live
amongst the classiest
of society. It’s a title
given out by the Elites.
They give out a title
under the predicate of a
falsehood and the personal
perpetual facade of laziness.
I am neither.


I am in the world, yet I am
somewhere that isn't Earth.
I am here, but I am not.
I exist, but my mind, my
opinions become a blur.


My mobility becomes a leisure,
and my leisure becomes my labor;
My labor becomes my profession;
My profession beholds my title.
I roam in the society casted by the
Elites, but I am merely a chess piece
to their game.


I am not an Outcast, I am not an Elite.
I am the class of the inbetween.
I am the silenced voice.
I am the history that’s repeated,
I am not a part of the community.
I am of the voices that
are disregarded.

Everyone tells you it's simple
to get over a spill of depression.
That's what they think it is.
A
Spill,
but it's more than that.

A spill ruins what's around it,
the liquid often stains the
surface where the initial spill
happened, but emotions
such as depression can not
simply be summed up into
such a simple solution.

They tell you it can.
They tell you it'll get better.
They offer up the reprieve of a
swift conversation to make 'you'
feel better, but it's not entirely
the truth.

Such a conversation is offered up
at your expense.

They want to not feel neglectful.
A feeling of that magnitude would
weigh too heavily on their
conscious.

So, they tell you to get better.
They tell you another day
is a day to turn around, to smile,
to he thankful, but it's not that simple is it?

Should it be?
They tell me it should be,
but how can I believe them
when my body rejects such a sentiment.
My mind detests those words
because such a powerful mechanism
knows the truth.
It isn't a spill.

My body harbors depression,
letting it leak into my mind,
my thoughts, my actions, and
my knowledge.

It shatters away at the tethers
of happiness I have,
leaving them practically
bare and decrepit by the time
the process of joyful
malnutrition departs from
my system.

The system that they say
will get better.

They offer advice,
but no solution.
They act is if they know,
but have no experience.

Spills.
Can joy be considered a spill?
Can sorrow be considered a spill?
Can hate be considered a spill?

Spills are temporary.
They are overflowing,
lapping away at the sides of
the fixture holding it in.

Spills can be taken care of,
they can be forgotten, but
depression can not, and yet,
they treat it as if it's a simple
emotion, but it's far more complex.

It
Is
Not
A
Spill.

You wouldn't believe me
even if I told the truth.
You wouldn't see a darkness
in my soul which you have
painted as light, as pure.

My role is that of an
innocent woman,
that of one with mild
tendencies,
that of one with
of stinging words,
and deliberate opinions.

No one ever sees
how dark I am.
They see the flux of
light that I have to offer.

They don't know the secrets
which I keep.
I'm too kind, I'm too simple,
I'm too sweet, but that's my
stellar performance on stage.
It's where I take my blossoming
breaths, where I indulge
myself in act one,
enabling myself a
break before act two
and before
the grand finale.

It never ends, for the
dramatic monologue
is of a continuous cycle of both
expectations and mildness that
I uphold.

Darkness. It's there.
You just don't see it.
No one sees it with
people like us.

The most innocent hide
the most complex secrets,
The most innocent hide
the darkest secrets, but
no one sees them until it's
too late.

Your touch lingers on me, it burns my skin in a way the heavens could never heal.

   Even the divine impunity of the whitest rays couldn't cool the blistering touch you left, for they weren't strong enough to win the battle.

   Your touch was that of darkness, but it had its own light of onyx, one so abrupt and real that it held me captive, for no one's touch could suffice to yours.

Beauty is a fallacy.
It makes sense to us,
but who has the right to
determine it?

The majority of the
Population perceives that
they are given that right,
for beauty has been twisted,
manipulated and barbed into
a wire that is toxic and
vehemently grotesque.

Beauty is subjective,
Its core isn’t objective.
We like to think it is,
but in reality, in notions,
in principles, and in practices
it is not

For beauty is determined by grace,
by elegance, and most importantly looks.

Beauty of thought and process
is highly disregarded.
It has become but a mere
illusion, barren in both
the intricacy of reality and truth.

Beauty is subjective, yet
it is determined by predispositions
and implicit standards that
originated many years ago,
yet these originated ideals
still reign supreme today.

Beauty is far more than
an outward façade,
For beauty is truth,
beauty is compassion,
beauty is knowledge
beauty is humility.

their love isn't their own
it isn't a shared moment
like the rest who follow the
straight narrative.

they steal their kisses behind
doors, buildings, alleys,
places people wouldn't pay them any mind.
they flinch in fear.
Afraid to be seen, afraid to show
who they love.

their love is already decided.
They're birthed to follow
the straight narrative.
Having to be with someone,
their heart doesn't desire.
To be what others want.
To be safe.

Their love is too ethereal
for the people who hate them
to ever understand.

Their love is too different
for others to synthesize.
Their love is pure, wild, and spirited.
For they don't follow the bounds
or the narratives
Society has implemented.

As wild and pure and spirited as
their love is. They still
have to hide.
Afraid of isolation
and persecution.
Afraid of loving who
their heart aches for.

who are they to you?
a scapegoat
here to receive what
you didn't want,
here to accept the blame
they never wanted to claim,
the blame that wasn't theirs to begin with.

To you they aren't heard,
they aren't seen,
they aren't believed.
they are but a flicker of thought
that was forgotten beyond
      incapacitated dwellings.

They are solely to blame
for the misfortunes of others.
if you listen you may hear them,
you may not. their pleas,
their bargains of terms remain
embedded in history. Their identities are
      vaguely regarded.

They are rich with hope,
with pleas that
ring foreign to your ears.

What are they to you?
they are what you need
to feel moral.
they are who you blame
and for tendrils of time;
they remain that way.