There's something to be said

about the feeling you get

in the moment you finally fit in.

I stood out all my life,

and not in the way people aspire to.

I wasn't the sunshine that lit up the room,

I wasn't the talent that needed no introduction.

I was the red stain on a perfect family tree.

Black sheep have the advantage of blending into shadows,

but there are no shadows the color of my crimson cloak.

I am the sore thumb in the crowd,

the subject of gawking.

My goal was always to change,

to shed my red hood and disappear into the shadows.

The status quo mutes any sentiment

of an alternative,

a way out of the evil cycle

my red cape sucked me into.

Until one day I lost control;

I threw out my hands in one final frustrated rebellion.

In a gut-punching jerk, I was thrown,

out of the wicked tornado I flew.

All I saw was scarlet;

there was no way I survived that change of momentum

and impact of crashing into the forest floor.

But there are no forests in death.

I scrambled to clear my robe from my eyes,

and realized the red I was seeing wasn't my own.

I had landed in a forest of red,

a place made for people like me.

When you feel out of place,

when you don't see yourself belonging in the spot you reside,

throw out your hands in defiance

and maybe you, too, will find your way home.