i've been wishing all these years

that i could be the homecoming queen-

pretty, perfect,

angelic, affluent

i want to be everything that she is

but what if she doesn't?

what if she longs for the day

when she can finally be herself

stop hiding all her feelings

in her broken home where nobody cares

what if all she wants is some real friends?

people who understand her,

who would be proud of her when she's at her highest,

but also during her lows?

maybe she just wants to have lows.

wants to feel human,

like the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders.

like she can breathe,

take off her tight dresses and high heels

and just relax.

what of she wants all the pressure

of eyes constantly being on her

to go away?

maybe she wants to reject all those guys that like who she is on the surface,

and find someone to give her heart to.

maybe she wants love.

love from her parents,

who don't even love each other anymore.

love from her friends

instead of just being together for popularity reasons.

love from the world

because she's herself, not because she's the skinniest, or the prettiest.

but mostly,

love from herself.

maybe she just desperately wants to love herself,

instead of feeling fake,

used, idolized, wanted.

maybe she just wants to be.

to live, to feel, and be free.

and here i am, wanting the life she so desperately wants to get rid of, to escape.

but even though i don't know her,

i love her.

i love the fact she puts on a brave face

even when it hurts,

when she doesn't want to.

she is stronger than all of us.

I have this picture I drew when I was five. A stick-figure princess in a pink ballgown, a tiara heavy with diamonds, and blonde curls falling around her shoulders.

Now, it's no work of art. I mean, I was five.

But it was my dream.

Yes, I'll admit it.

I was that little girl who everyone secretly hates, who tells the teacher and her classmates and her parents and the stranger walking down the street that "I'M GOING TO BE A PRINCESS WHEN I GROW UP!!!"

Of course, a few years later I found that drawing and crumpled it up because I was a perfectionist little brat of an eight-year-old who was disgusted with how sloppy five-year-old me's drawings were.

The thing is...

Standing here in the spotlight, with the tiara on my head, I wasn't entirely wrong.

Okay, yes, I was entirely wrong, I'm obviously not a princess. But stick with me here.

Homecoming queen, right?

About as close to royalty as I could logically get.

Here I am, dancing with a beautiful boy, a crown on my head, a dress of the softest pink draped over my body, and to all the eyes focused on me, I look like the princess that I always claimed I would be.

And I have everything! I'm popular! Pretty! Happy!

Right?

I pull myself closer to my dance partner so that I can hide my teary eyes.

Yes, I feel like the stick-figure princess.

All pink, all royalty.

All crumpled up and despised.

First, too fat. Then too skinny. She needs glasses? Get her contact lenses, her face is too pretty to ruin.

Every word like a dagger into my side. A wrinkle in the drawing. Until I was so contorted that I didn't recognize myself.

I wonder what they would think if I let the mascara run down my face. If I told my mom that I hate cheerleading, told my friends that I had bought this dress from a thrift store because I couldn't afford it otherwise, screamed that I had a crush on the nerdy boy with braces that shone in moonlight, and burst it into tears because I wish I had stayed home with a book.

But newsflash: Homecoming queens don't cry. Princesses keep their heads up or the crown slips. And my mask is a safe, protective barrier between what I know and how horribly I could be hurt.

So I blink hard, plaster on a smile, and laugh as my throbbing feet twirl the night away.