Chairs screeching. People murmuring. Teachers sighing. A girl crying.

Typical.

I could stare at myself in the bathroom mirror of my dorm all I wanted and tell myself that I’m not a crybaby, but nothing is going to really change the fact that I am.

Really. I’ve cried over a baby chicken dying, but who wouldn’t.

The common mantra that lures people into a false sense of security is the same reason why mine’s fell. No matter what. “If you embrace it, you’ll get over it.”

But really, that’s saying the same thing as “Hey, if I embrace drowning because I’m scared of it, I’ll get over it.” Of course, once you realize that you’re actually dying and that was the most move you could ever make.

And I probably just got off of track of what I was supposed to say instead of all this philosophy .

Sorry. I’ve had a bad day, just like the day before, and the day before that. Bullying tends to take it’s toll.

I don’t belong here. I’m not even Korean like the most of them. I’m not skinny. I’m not that fat. I’m not even fully white or all that black. Nestled in-between everything of anything. I’m always wishing. Maybe I could lose some 50 pounds and look like the girl next to me so I wouldn’t have to keep checking my thighs and comparing them to my friend’s. Maybe if I was a bit whiter than the caramel tone I’m born with, they would stop pushing me to the side. Maybe if I had cooler eyes than the same dull brown ones e