dA-Q-Youth

I am the one they call broken-- I am the person who doesn't know herself. Looking in the mirror, she sees a stranger's eyes: A person wishing she could fit some description of normal, Even if that definition was her own.

Who decided what beauty must be? Is it really only what the eye can see? Everywhere, people are killing themselves to become "perfect," And they are taught that all "flaws" can be fixed. Fight for perfection to the death; It's a guaranteed loss so take your last breath. Who even decided how to define beautiful-- A word that describes nothing but the highest toll? And despite all the expectations laid out by society, Isn't is what's inside that really shows true beauty?

 I sat on the faded denim couch with the two letters balanced on my knees, one from my late mother's lawyer, and the other from my pen pal in California. The decision I faced was perhaps the sole factor upon which I would begin to build a new life for myself, this time one that would belong to me and me alone. As I stood up, the two papers fluttered to the dusty floor, the wrinkled, doodle-covered loose leaf landing on top of the off-white legal parchment. The next thing I knew, I was standing on the stoop of the place I had called home until two minutes ago, wearing old ripped up jeans and a ratty t-shirt. In my hand was my beat-up skate