Elle always had long beautiful brown hair. Her boyfriend, Olive, always adored it. It perfectly framed her freckle filled face and was always soft as silk.

For years Elle's mother would brush, braid, and play with her hair. It was a nice change from her fathers smoky scent of cigarettes and the constant fighting. After her parents divorced her mother let go. She wasn't around family as often, and she would no longer play with Elle's long silky hair.

One night in December, Elle and Olive were in Elle's bedroom. Olive sat on the bed while Elle sat up against it. The two of them would chat for hours and hours on end. They never ran out of topics.

Eventually, Olive asked Elle a question. "Do you mind if I play with your hair.?" Elle looked up at him before answering. "Sure.." she said with slight hesitation. her hair hasn't been played with in years since the divorce.

Olive gently payed with Elle's hair while they talked about different things. Elle found comfort in his hands stroking her hair a bit.

Elle didn't know if she'd ever tell him about her past. Her life was in his hands.

"You only live once!" was a line everybody knew.

Whether that be in shortened form "YOLO" or the words by themselves, everybody knew it. Living scares me. I live in a world that feels like a prison cell. Sometimes I so badly want to break out if that cell. But I get a weird feeling in my chest. Was is panic? I am not sure was exactly the feeling is. My mind shifts. One second I am desperate to break through what feels like platinum prison bars - another I'm scared to leave. What about the people I am unable to speak to? How do I let them know how much I so truly love them? Or aspire to be like them? But how do I love the life that I live in when nobody can love me?
So what exactly do I do? Nothing. I stand there, watching and waiting for someone else to create a legacy for me to watch. I am unable to endure my own legacy and fame when I can barely take a step out of my bedroom, scared of what there is to be beyond these four walls. I lay down in my bed. I think and I think and I think about so many different things I cannot control.

Now, what will my legacy be? What does my future look like? Will my life continue to be that beautifully filled in painting that those who surround me create? What is beautiful to them isn't what is beautiful to me. I have many dreams that feel impossible to make a reality.

In the end, I am one of eight billion and cannot create an impact. Who will miss me when I'm gone? Will my children tell my story? Will my friends remember me? Or will I drift away like smoke?

I hate being the favorite. I don't like it at all one bit. The pressure to be perfect. The pressure to be great The pressure to be astonishing and be the perfect weight. I'm not perfect. Nor am I great. Stop painting my picture you claim I create. Heaven forbid your perfect daughter is unique? Is my originality too weird for the things that you speak? Tell our family wonderful lies. And act like you've won some great grand prize. I'll hide myself just for your sake. Just don't be surprised when I eventually break.

A sense of acceptance A sense of relief The feeling of safety and being complete. What is belonging, according to me? It is something that ends quite shortly. Like a dream you try to grasp and hold onto, only for it to leave Or a firework on the fourth of July that is extremely brief Or a memory of being a young baby that drifts away like smoke. The memory's of being young and happy, listening to a tale or hoax What is my point? What it the end goal? Why does the feeling of belonging end and take away my sense of hope? It's not permanent, I don't think it ever will be. Maybe it is simply just me.

My city is on fire They raise the standards higher And the marks on my papers get brighter and brighter. Everything surrounding me in gray colored ashes Broken, shattered, smoke stained glasses. A metaphor to lighten up the unbearable truth. A phrase I will use to conceal what I lose. Watered down mascara or a tear stained face Isn't enough to let me take a break. Late assignments and crimson colored C's Surround me as I mourn and wish to feel free My world, my purpose, the reason I felt proud Now is a reminder of who I let down. The flashing bright colors of the warm red heat Are the same color of the big red X on my math sheet. I look down at my grade. I see every mistake. I'll keep it a secret just for your sake I look back up to bright orange colors Of my entire city lit up by fire.