Words stumble on the floor

Of an open choir room.

"You're the only other blonde I know,"

She says with disappointment.

I'm sitting here, listening to the chat,

Not piping up about my golden locks.

I'm meters away, so I could whisper my name,

But I won't mention the hours I spend

Brushing

Combing

Washing

Adoring

My hair.

It's natural for them to ignore me;

Two beautiful classmates with

Futures promising like the Tower of Babel,

Sticking straight into the sky

With billboards that scream to be noticed.

We're similar in more ways than hair color,

But they are brave, and I am

Too small for primetime.

I am not a shimmering star,

I am not a musician,

I am not a future.

Eyes shoot off to the side;

The clock mocks me!

I won't leave this Hell alive,

Or any taller.