You look at me and all you see are the brands I wear.

Abercrombie, American Eagle, Hollister, and Aeropostale.

“Prep,” you mutter in a barely audible voice as you walk by.

Then away you go, your laughter booming through the corridor.

I keep walking with my head held high, a smile plastered on my face.

I walk with never-ending joy as if you said nothing at all.

On the inside, my mind is racing with a million questions.

The questions that stand out are:

Why do the clothes I wear define who I am?

They should express my sense of style not my personality.

Why can’t we all be friends?

Every morning spread out before my eyes are all the cliques.

Everyone “belongs” to one certain circle.

Why do we put labels on people we don’t know?

Nerd, Goth, Punk, Jock, Prep.

All I’m trying to say is:

STOP! I am me!