A White Flag

          'Put an X on my chest,

But I'm still standing 'cause I won't forget,

The hell on earth you put me through,

I'll save myself in spite of you.'

-Bishop Briggs (White Flag)

 In a world filled with approximately 7.6 billion people, there is only one you.

 The only shade of royal purple in the mix of periwinkles and violets.

            The only protagonist in your own epic adventure written in the font that suits you best.

            Your personality is a mixture of your own spin on the world mixed with the influence of the people around you.

            Yet, those people include the hypocrites, the judges and the jury who force you to adapt to the circumstances thrown your way.

            A comment about your appearance changes a stick of balm into glossy lipstick.      

            A pair of sneakers into Gucci heels.

            A regular coat into an expensive leather jacket.

            When the occasion calls for it, these changes make sense.

            But how about for a regular night out with friends, are all the differences really necessary?

Because, I mean, in a world filled with approximately 7.6 billion people, there is only one you.

Remember that.

She held that tattered white flag in her right hand dangled from a couple pale fingers, the edge of fabric sweeping the ground beneath her feet.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, a symphony of voices filling her ears.

“Disappointment.”

“Slow.”

“Ugly.”

“Stupid.”

Hate, spite, anger, frustration, she breathed it in, choking in a fit of coughs.

Choking until her eyes snapped open.

Silence.

         It was silent as she dropped that white flag onto the dirt, watching it bounce once and then lie still.

 No more white flags.

            No more giving in to ugly comments, harsh truths and hypocritical judgment.

            No more believing you aren’t good enough just because your circumstances say you aren’t.

            In that labyrinth of twisted hallways and spiraling roads, pave your own path straight through the dead center.

            Those resented voices buzzed in her ears as she walked down that crowded hallway.

          No eyeliner.

          No mascara.

          No lipstick.

          Just her.

          Raw, bare and true.

           

         You decide whether or not you can or cannot.

            Not those people standing on the sidelines, throwing you stormy glances.

            Not that jury, watching your every move only to reprimand you when you perform the one wrong in a million and one rights.

            Not that anchor which drags you down levels of sand and debris, barely allowing you the chance to breathe.

            And definitely not that captor, who turns you blind, expecting you to see and clips your wings, expecting you to fly.

           

            She remembered the friend who’d made her an outcast.

The lover who’d led her on just to look cool when he left her.

The bestie who’d lied about her to be a part of that popular circle.

The Hawk eyes followed her form, whispers reverberating in the background.

         And for once, she ignored them.

         ‘Beautiful’, they’d call her as she strode down that hall, her head held high, ‘a force to be reckoned with.’

           

         Be the writer of your own story, the decider of your own destiny, and the teller of your own fate.

Let your story be heard.

           There’s always someone listening.

            She paved her own path, engraved her own kismet, and forged her own life.

          No more white flags.

          Never again.