On "Emo"

She brushed on generic black nails, used pomade and wax on the ugly chopped haircut that her best friend also had, slid into the skinny jeans and band tee combinations that were so popular amongst her circle. None of this was her, it was a plastic stereotype to which she had fallen. Underneath her icy skin was light, so warm and forgiving that everyone who felt it knew, just knew, that it must be fake. In her school, "emo" was the new trend, the phase everyone had grabbed hold of and refused to let go. Vampires, coffins, red marked razor scars. It was an obsession - and an unhealthy one at that - that she had fallen succumb to, just to feel like she was good enough. Still, underneath the depressed, lethargic exterior, some kids still dreamed. They dreamed of and loved beautiful things, the word statuesque, brilliant literature, fine art. On occasion, a band of them snuck down to a concert hall in secret to listen to something besides their iPods that were full of angst-ridden screaming men. Beauty was, in general, socially outlawed at the school, unless you saw it in the washed up drama, the pretend problems, the too-tight jeans and the too-messy hair. (And some beauty you could find in this, but it was a disturbed beauty, one born of hate and exhaustion.) This girl, she was one of the kids who still dreamed, and she hated it, for as she put it, who would want to be yourself, when you can be popular?

(Some day, when the school had faded away with graduation, she would realize how silly it was - they all would realize how silly it was - but that day, getting ready at her mirror, it didn't seem ridiculous; it seemed to be life or death.)