There is just this one question. There is just this one question.
Just ONE question.
It lingers too often.

I would like to ask any person the same question
That haunts me, pervades me like a festering ant bite that appeared out of nowhere,
The constant scratching at my mind, bleeding for answers,
Leaving scars as reminders.
That one question is the menacing acne on each of your faces that manifests
After every test, after every quiz, after every practice, after every late night study session, after blah, blah, blah.
One after another after another.
Huge. Red. Spot.
It makes you want to hide away, cover it up with the excuse “they” call concealer, or whatever the hell it is for you girls.
Guys, good luck to you.
But eventually it will fade away, after all that picking at it,
Leaving scars as reminders.

Sixteen, high school, striving to speak my outspoken mind,
But staying silent.
My mind is I-75.
The cars are the questions in my head, way too many to count, but they all lead to the same place, or in my mind, the same frustration.

I am Rapunzel, minus the eighty feet of blonde hair.
Trapped and flustered with the same unease and tension in her eyes,
Failing to escape her tower.

Maybe it’s just me.
I need to go to a psychiatrist, therapist, or anyone that deals with insanity.
But they don’t know me.
Or maybe a friend? Or my mother? My father?
But they don’t know me either.
Or maybe that girl in the glass that copies my every move, every flaw, every broken part of me, every lost friendship or trust or respect, every insignificant detail of my body that entails me to believe it’s misshapen,
But she says nothing.
Or maybe just someone who will listen? Or give me advice?
But they’re just curious to know what’s wrong with me.
They don’t care.

My question is not just a single question.
It’s not a metaphor, allusion, any type of figurative language.
It pertains to me, selfish or not, I am so sure every single person has experienced
My feeling of unworthiness, that sense of insecurity, loneliness, hopelessness, that emotional roller coaster screaming “WHO ARE YOU?” fifteen million times with every twist and turn, spiraling out of control as it cycles over and over and over in my mind.

Who am I? Funny you should ask.

I don’t really know.