Fabulousness

I grew up in a safe neighborhood,

Children ran around the yard and neighbors barbecued every other weekend.

Dogs strolled around the block and white Lilly seeds fell from tree branches.

And yet it was a nightmare.

When people say looks can be deceiving,

Listen the first time.

Because the scene wasn't worth the nicknames on the swings,

Or the wet beetles being flung onto my shirt,

Or having all the ribbons ripped off my Barbie bicycle handles.

Sure, there were days when I could draw with chalk and talk about Halloween and race to the ice cream truck when it came whistling down the corner.

But those were rare.

Where do I come from?

A childhood full of closeted misery.

A childhood full of being subjected to races just because the other kids knew I was slow.

Full of always being “It” and never being heard.

One where no one wanted to sit with me on the bus or play with me on the playground,

Instead others called me “fat” and “crusty” in the lunch line or flicked boogers at me from their desks.
So, I guess that’s when it started.

The transformation.

You know, the repetitive drill that sooner or later every girl falls into.

Work out, don’t eat, buy clothes, coat a face in powdery make-up.

And I still wasn’t good enough.

The pranks and maliciousness subsided as we grew, but the scars, the invisible scars, never faded.

Everyone else bloomed into fabulousness and I…

I was just me.

My life in a nutshell.

Because here I’m still trying, still hopelessly searching

To be amazing.

Can miracles happen?

Will fabulousness ever come?