I know ugly and I've seen it up close.

Ugly is what you call it when there aren't any good words left.

Ugly is what you call it when you're so exiled from your community you have to move.

Ugly is having the power to help and using it to abuse.

Ugly is the people who stand by and watch.

Ugly has probably been you, once or twice.

My safety shouldn't be a concern.

My safety should be a given.

I should be safe.

Safe.

"Safe," no modifiers.

Safe.

I have heard that we all bleed the same.

It's true, when we all bleed, it's the same blood, thick and red and metallic.

But we don't all bleed.

We all bleed red, but only some of us are bleeding.

I know ugly enough to know it's not going anywhere anytime soon.

I'm not big on secrets. I know who I am and what I want. I don't believe in luck. I believe in fight.

I'm an up-and-coming maybe-star of local, unpaid theater. It'll be hard to juggle high school performances on top, but that's just how it goes sometimes, y'know? Three shows in a year, minimal overlap; how hard could it be?

I'm short for my age and definitely short a few dance lessons, but I got talent and a couple inches of attitude to spare. 

(It's been a while since my last ballet lesson. And my last tap lesson. And my last jazz lesson. Still been paying attention, though. Still watching.)

It's been a long, long time since I cared about the opinions of anyone but my directors. You want to call me shit? Go ahead. At the end of the day, I've accomplished something, but you're still a dick.

I try to make myself too busy for anything else. No schoolnights. No weekends, either. 

Oh, and no boyfriend, 'cause I wanna play the leading man. 

Yeah, avoid the lifelong curse of typecasting.

Lower your pitch. 

Quit standing like that.

Don't laugh so much, so loud.

Brilliant falsetto! Now tone it the hell down.

They say that a career is about compromise and sacrifice. They're right.

don't look behind you

(it's . . . not pretty)

i know as well as you, that gnawing guilt

you're being eaten away

stop looking back

it's bad for you

poetry on my screen, in my mind, racing in and out my brain.

real authors. "real authors," like there can be fake authors?

own your talent, love your talent, but mostly, live your talent.

share what you've made with the world.

every day, write. write! write, write, write like tomorrow's a far-off dream, a maybe.

If you do not wake up each morning and thank whatever forces in the world that may be working in your favor that you have a family that is gracious enough not to kick you to the curb, be grateful.

If you do not monitor your every movement, under the scrutiny of the public eye, only for the sake of avoiding assault, be grateful.

If you do not live with the expectation that you will be the victim of a hate crime, be grateful.

If your mother doesn't have to worry about the odds of your murder, be goddamn grateful.

Fuck Orlando's fucking lenient gun laws.

My heart goes out to Orlando.

Who do I blame?

(This time. I mean, just this once, give me someone to blame.)

I'm one more voice in the crowd.

I might be preaching to the choir, but don't let me go unheard.

Let this be a call to action.

(And if anything but a call to action, forget you read this. Because if this did nothing, if I did nothing, then I don't know. I don't have any idea why I wrote this. Get the hell out there, and do something.)

just woke up but 

it feels like i just took my first breath and

the surrealism of my dream means nothing when

faced with my bizarre reality 

awesome 

        I've often been asked if I'm sorry about what I did. Well, you tell me.

        I have quite the tale of tales, full of mean girls, meaner girls, vengeance, and whatever else have you, but who gives a genuine crap about all of that? It's easiest to start with the end of the beginning: one night, before the art classes had their showcase, I snuck into school during a football game, went to the art room, and painted large black X's over the eyes of Amanda's photography subjects. It was perfect.

        I went to sleep feeling guiltless and giddy and somewhat drunk on an illusion of power. (This would be a good time to mention that if you have an issue with moral ambiguity, you've got the wrong person.)

        The next morning, I practically leapt out of bed. I knew Amanda; she was a drama queen from the depths of hell. This was going to be good.

        At least, that was what I thought.

        As I lurked just outside the art room, I could hear her too-shrill voice. " . . . yeah, like, totally. I think of it as a commentary on the kind of hypocrisy that we see in today's society when we put our idols up on pedestals, you know? I feel like this just really embodies that . . . "

        You have got to be joking. This couldn't be happening! She turned it into artsy-er art. I couldn't even take credit for that if I wanted to! And her stupid photos would be a part of that stupid showcase tonight, where stupid adults would absolutely drool over it.

        Okay, think, think. So, tonight would be the showcase, but tomorrow there would be an assembly. An assembly . . . with videos. Undoubtedly, videos of the showcase. I knew what I had to do.

        Wait, sorry, did you think that petty vandalism was the climax of my little story? Oh, honey, no.

        Starting at roughly five to ten minutes after lunchtime and going until about four or five a.m. the next day, it was a project of epic proportions. But it was nearly finished. All that remained was one final portion: I had to hack the school's computer system and replace their video file with my own. Easier than expected! (Maybe my school should get better security? Yikes.) Now all that was left was to sit back and watch all hell break loose.

        I didn't bother getting any sleep until I was at school. There were better things to be doing, like silently gloating. After napping through homeroom, it was time for an assembly. Blah blah, opening remarks, yes, we understand how hard everyone's worked on this, blah, finally, " . . . ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you've been waiting for, some highlights from the showcase!" (No one actually cared that much. They would in a minute, though.)

        In the deafening silence of half a second, I was almost afraid it wouldn't work. But then the half-broken projector flickered to life.

        "You all know Amanda, right? Of course you do." My voice was loud within the confines of the auditorium. The screen showed her school photo. She looked awful.

        "And I'm sure you all saw her wonderful photography last night! So creative, so innovative." The staff couldn't turn off the video, or even the projector. I had made sure of that.

        I played the surveillance tapes from the night I snuck in. I had cut them together so well. I'd also added music, for just the right touch of dramatic flair. Ah! It looked great. The audience was loving it, or possibly hating it. Either way, they were paying attention.

        "See?" I was shouting. "She lied! She took the credit, like she always does. It was me and none of you knew!" I was screaming. The screen showed my school photo, the colors oversaturated and flashing. 

        "So damn her and damn her art!" People were reacting. This didn't affect their opinion of Amanda, only their opinion of me. This fact meant nothing.

        Scene change. Cut to my outline in a dark room. "Damn her." My lips twitched with a smile. "Damn her."

        Suffice to say, I'm not sorry.