With every disapproving glance, my inner child chokes up with tears and fears that she was never given enough time to learn the dance of adulthood. The turns and pivots force her to trip over her clumsy feet and she skins her knee against the hardwood floor. The spotlight trains on her red face and the guffaws rain down in a torrential flood of hahas. And the rest of the world keeps dancing.

With every sneer, my heart falters with the fear that I’ll forget the words to my heart song. Like the words will stumble from my mouth and I’ll mumble the wrong phrase in a haze of quick confusion. That I’m singing off-key and the beat doesn’t beat like it should: “One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…” And the rest of the world keeps singing.

With every “no offense, but,” the impulsive teenager in me takes a mental razor to run it across my metaphorical wrist. Warm liquid runs down in rivulets, red droplets dripping onto the floor in an impromptu tribute to Pollock’s splatter art. She smears the mess in an attempt to hide what she’s done and hears the hiss of laughter and condemnation. And the rest of the world keeps painting.

In the face of adversity, I’ve told myself to turn and run. To sprint out the door and lock myself away in a place where I’ll never have to glimpse my face in a mirror.

But I get up.

I blink back the tears, twist my mouth into a smile, and flounce across the stage in an extreme lack of grace. I swing my arms wildly as I spin, my head thrown back in pure bliss. It doesn’t matter that my spontaneity doesn’t match the world’s routine because I’m dancing for no one but me.

And I take a deep breath and belt out a verse, loud and proud, until the sound reaches the end of the auditorium. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to rap and I can’t quite hit the high note because I’m singing for no one but me.

And I gaze down at the piece at my feet, getting lost in the sorrow and hurt and frustration and inadequacy. But my soul expands with newfound hope and purpose and I wrap my wrist in a bandage and kiss it better. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel anything when you look at my art because I’m painting for no one but me.

If you didn’t like this poem, I’d just like to say that it doesn’t matter. Because this was for me.