._.MaryAnne._. is a nineteen-year-old student who will write you into a coma if given the chance. She’s imaginative and sees magic in all things, constantly spilling her creativity on paper. This is her poem, Outsiders.


I am the key

that doesn’t fit in the lock

of society.

Like an extra piece

of a puzzle, I remain unwanted

on the side. Time ticks by,

tick tock, I hear it fly.

In a world I don’t belong to, I’m a spectator,

watching through the keyhole,

forever on the side lines.

The outsider, that’s me.

My name is Lexi Carew,

but I don’t know why I’ve just told you that.

It’s not like you care.

Why would you?

I am the wallflower, the carrion fly, the subtle scent of old blood

that makes people gag and grunt and groan.

I am the gentle reminder of an old ache you never want to return.

People see me and they run.

The outsider, that’s me.

It’s not like I have the plague

or anything.

I’m not diseased or disabled,

sick or stupid.

I’m not mentally lacking

or physically unattractive.

My ailment is of a whole other

pathogenic breed entirely.

I am different. My suffering

is the skin I wear;

people look at it as if it’s clothing.

If only, it was as easy to shed.

Then maybe I’d fit in,

because inside we’re all the same.

I guess that’s just wishful thinking,

because I know who I am.

I know who I’ll be.

The outsider, that’s me.

My hair is darker

than the midnight sky:

black, like night with no stars,

it rolls down the curve of my spine. Down to the middle of my back.

It is there that it hangs,

like a noose around my neck;

the billboard that says

who I am: the outsider.

No matter what I do, dye, tie, cut, wash, dry,

it’ll never change.

The trademark of my identity is ingrained

in the colour of my braids.

It screams.

The outsider, that’s me.

Whether I’m here or there,

it doesn’t matter.

I am everywhere.

I see and hear

and smell the poison in their lungs

as my classmates speak of love. When I was younger

I used to want to be loved. I craved it with every fibre

of my being, but it turns out love is made for a select few,

in a club I am not a part of,

in a world I do not live in.

We all have our roles.

We all have our teams.

I know the script.

I cannot deviate, deride; I have no time for dreams.

I am the Outsider.

That’s my identifier.

The outsider, that’s me.

But it won’t last forever.

Eventually my people and I

will burst from the shackles,

our minds a stick of homemade dynamite

ready to burst into flames.

We will burn those ropes,

too tight on our skin,

and heal those bruises.

We won’t let you win.

Nor will we stand together,

row after row,

packaged and pressed in the gallows, no.

Scars sign my name in black

ink that never fades,

tattooed it on my face

that I was a puppet on a string.

I shuffle the letters and spell out the words

Let the outsiders in.

You can read more of ._.MaryAnne._.’s work on Patreon, Facebook and Instagram

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Bits Bobs & Books