The little white bug glows and hums again,

            Within it could be a sting or a hug.

            Afraid to see, I reach hesitantly down

            And pick up my future, past, and present.

            In the palm of my hand it seems so small,

            Yet it is the door to an enormous, unseen world.

            I am lucky this time. The words do not cut as deep,

             In fact, they are dull compared to the hurtful slang

            And soul-crushing disapproval of my peers in the past.

            A mere comment about my hair and weight,

            Is nothing compared to criticism of my character

            And my heart, which I had tried so hard to guard.

            They did not have a reason for choosing me,

            Their “lucky winner.” Perhaps a look I gave one day was wrong.

            Maybe I was too much myself, and that scared them all.

            Yes, maybe they are afraid of me; my skill, my art,

            My capability to be alone. But if they are so terrified,

            Then why am I the one afraid to pick up my phone?