Pressed Lemons

You like your lemonade freshly squeezed, extra sugar.

It gives you that feeling of content, satisfaction.

You fit in.

Everyone wants that feeling, but you can’t reach it

unless you’ve met the requirement of four ice cubes,

three Splendas and two freshly sliced lemons.

When society tells you to add an ice cube,

drink through a straw

and never slurp in public,

you listen.

When you’re told to stand in a single-file line,

wear a skirt that covers your knees

and not speak until ordered to,

you listen.

You do whatever you are told,

out fear, expectation,

trepidation, intimidation.

A tiny blurred pixel corrupts your whole picture of what it means to “be yourself.”

You are pressed on living up to the presumption,

pleasing those around.

You are under the assumption

that you are original, an individual.

You are contained by your morals,

but restrained by your conscience.

You know what is right and wrong

and steer clear of trouble,

but you get wrapped up in that sticky yellow caution tape

and forget your first amendment right…

Freedom of expression.

Just because I was raised in a suburban, family-orientated neighborhood,

and enjoy long walks on the beach

does not mean you know me and can classify me as a “stereo-typical white girl.”

I am labeled and stamped, “normal.”

Maybe I’m not like you.

Maybe I’m not “normal.”

Maybe I like five ice cubes, four Splendas and

Maybe I like my lemons pressed.