My arm is dotted with black and blue.
Some of it is because I get pushed around at school.
The other ones, the lighter ones, those are because of needles.
You’d think after realizing that I wasn’t normal I’d start trying again, but that’s not the case. Seeing how normal people act, I want to get as far away from normal as possible. Even if it costs me the ‘best years of my life’. Even if it means getting so stoned out that I don’t even know who I am.
The cost of being different is a high price, a price I’m willing to pay to not become the cookie cut monster that everyone expects you to be from the day of conception.
Some people do it differently than me.
Then again, I’m not some people.
So if I need to do drugs and have fun with complete strangers to not be normal, than I’ll do it, even if it’s what I never wanted to do in the first place.
I used to have a different plan. The normal plan. Go to college and get a job and have a family.
Well that all changed the moment this scar came.
And I’m only fourteen.
Am I okay with this? In some ways. In other ways, no. But if I know one thing, it’s this:
Never let different escape you.