judged.

I am prosecuted with faulty evidence that does not match my case.

I am treated as if I am guilty of some unmistakable crime.

I am thrown into a world where I do not belong.

I am forced to forget my old life of charm and tranquility.

I am thrown into a new world, full of darkness that I feel that I must indulge. But when I do, people judge me, throw me farther into the darkness, and left there to rot.

Children, laugh at me. I dare not laugh back, I dare not point and stare at you. I will not try to sooth the flustering wounds you have left me with. I am stronger than that, stronger than what you say. I will stand tall, not belittle every walking thing I see like you do. You watch me with UN forgiving eyes, as if I am a monster.

When there is no hiding that I am indeed a monster.

Sit straight. Do not talk. No writing. No reading.

This world has forgotten our past. Was it not rules that have started every war? Is it not territory that has started every battle? Wasn't it harsh unforgiving words that starts every feud between each other?

I do not come to you with no message. I do not come to you without a sense of wonder, a different outtake on the world. Why do you judge the innocent? Why do you judge of the past and not of the present!

Let me tell you a true story children.

I wrote a story. I wrote a story about how we do not know peace. How the peace we know, is not what we need. How we are all monsters, yet we do not see it. How we scream and demand for things, yet we do not need the things we demand.

I didn't think it would be read, out loud, to a whole classroom of un forgiving people. But it was, and the whole time I sat there, not uttering a word as my own words were read off by another. My hands were shaky, my legs heavy and weak. My mind was spinning with the faint words people were saying about my so called "frightening" story. It was a bickering rant, not so far from this one. After the complete typed story was read, they guessed on who the author was. Who the author of this dark and un mistakable story was. I didn't understand why they really wanted to know. Yes, it was part of the game. But…I know it was something more than that. It wasn't just curiosity of who and why they wrote this vile story. I felt like I was on trial as they went around calling names, guessing people not that far off from me. And then, out of the dark mist that I was engulfed in, my name was called.

I nodded. I lowered my hands from my hair, scared to see the faces of the people around me. I whispered to myself, with growing confidence of what had just happened, " yes. It was mine."

And it was over . They turned back to the front, and waited for the next story. But not all, of course it couldn't be all, because the world doesn't work that way.

A boy I know, a boy I despise. That everyone should really despise… He turned to me, his hair so dark brown its almost black. Tall and skinny, a jerk, perverted, and just a…I have no words to describe him anymore. He sits to the left of me, one desk up from my own. He had been throwing disgusting and rude comments to his friend to the other side of me all day and the day before that. He turned to me, laughing, " Are you depressed?"

If you think these are words of comfort, you are mistaking. These were words of disgust, of triumph of making a few others around us laugh. If I weren't who I was, I would have gotten up, and smacked him right across the face. But I didn't, because it was my third period class. And spending my lunch in ISS (In. School. Suspension) did not sound very fun. Vile words were gathered in my mouth; ready to spill out at this man I couldn't recall the name of.

Yes.

We are all monsters.