I sit here on my bed writing about me,

For a little poem called Theme 120 D.

It brings back memories from the past seventeen years.

When I was young, like maybe four, life was a happy place with no cares or worries.

The school starts at five and still everyone was nice.

The news one day that we are moving was exciting and sad.

I knew I would miss my friends because they cared about me.  

They would be the last.

The new house was awesome and I loved the yard; it was huge and green.

A new school year started, second grade.

I felt well prepared.  I did what I was supposed to do with no frown or fuss.

Not because I wanted to but because I must.

By fifth grade something inside me did not feel right, but only I knew what it could be.

Teachers saw me being happy and free...

Little did they know about the real me.

Middle school, the age of adolescence begins.

And I stayed pretty quiet, as not to be seen.

Many times I would cry myself to sleep waking up to my alarm ripping me away from my dreams.

My dreams are where I am happy and carefree with people that are just like me.

There have been teachers that inspired me and coaches that dared me to chase my dreams.  

Orchestra conductors that helped me to improve and encouraged me to be the best... the best...that I can be.

Now I am in high school, now taught to be mentally tough.

But I still carry my mask, so no one can see all the hurt from my past that takes home on my shoulders.

Seventeen years of pain, tears, and fears.

All these years listening to people laughing, giggling, and gossiping about me.

Faking to be my friends, telling me how much they care.  

Parties and fun times few in between; which were all lies.

Parents saying, “Sorry, you do not fit in.” Friends calling my parents names.

I look in the mirror now and try to think about how it will be okay.

Trying to be strong and hold on to being me.

I try to tell myself that there are others like me trying to understand this life.

I close my eyes, looking around my brain and I see you all, the same people I shared memories

of happiness when we were small.

But even then you mostly saw the color of my skin.  

See I am not white or black- a Milkshake as you called me-

I did not know, then, how that word has affected most of my life.

The next thing you compared me to was an Oreo.

Sometimes it makes me sad, and I end up crying.

But now I think much differently.  A lot of people love to eat Oreos and drink Milkshakes.

They go tanning in the summer and winter

so they can be as tan as I am.

I am sitting here in my bed, realizing it is actually great to be me.

But then again, who spells Lexi without an E at

The End?