Pixellated Projects

The halls burst with beautiful signs of life as kids talk and move in unison, 
as if they are creating a harmonious serenade. 
Among them, an outcast hides in the shadow  
unkempt, unclean, and dust trembling at their feet. 

Kids laugh and stay clear, 
as if the outcast carries a disease. 
The outcast sighs as they tread to class, 
eyes lifeless, too tired to care. 
Their hoodie provides the only form of solace, 
tucked comfortably over their head. 

Their rugged backpack hits the floor with a dull bam. 
They take out a book as the desk eats a nasty slam. 
The ripple transcends, and heads turn on command. 
As the outcast looks up, they are met with disapproving glares  
each one like the gaze of a snake. 

The outcast feels like a mouse beneath them 
and quickly loses their gaze. 
They remain a ghost among the mass of kids. 
Isolation has become comforting
the premise of someone on the brink of being too far gone. 

The day passes like smoke in a mirror, 
a cycle of lost hope and silent turmoil. 
The heart gasps for any signs of faith, 
as cracks start to trace the edges. 
Until one day, it shatters like glass. 

That is it. 
In the outcast’s mind, it’s already the end. 

The night will be their last waltz. 
They write a letter from the open safe of their broken heart. 
They will not concede anymore with their past, 
as they sneak out during the night. 

What must be done, must simply be done. 
Their eyes narrow on a knife like prey. 
It screams reprieve 
as a smile treads the outcast’s face  
a forlorn expression that feels like years 
since it’s seen the day. 

The knife touches the skin with desire 
as blood seeps into view. 
Painful, yet extremely satisfying. 

The outcast closes their eyes, 
whispering their last wish, 
ready to trace the heavens. 

But then, their phone rings. 

It slices through the silence. 
They lose total focus. 
Fueled by anger, they answer with a scathing remark
only to be met with a response that 
freezes them in time. 

Disbelief. 

The knife, 
once like a partner in crime, 
falls from their hand. 
It hits the cold tile  
lost and forgotten. 

Tears slide down the outcast’s face as they sob. 
Not due to sorrow or sadness, 
but because they know 

This is not their end. 
It’s simply the beginning.