The Goth Comes of Age

I stare in the mirror at my whiskers, unshaven,
The solemn hue of a sinister raven.
Try as I may, I cannot erase
The inner darkness coming out of my face.

Oh, my soul was black, so I wore black clothes,
But now blackness emerges from under my nose,
And each of those tendrils sprung from my chin
Must be the marking of some former sin.

My classmates avoid me, I look like a fool
As I walk through the hell that is middle school.
They once mocked the spikes on my skinny jeans,
But for the first time I feel like they’re laughing at me.

Oh, I thought I knew agony, thought I’d seen trouble,
But what can compare with a cheekful of stubble?
I’ll cut off this evil, this suffering I’ve made!
(How convenient I carry a razor blade.)

So I hack at my face, but the skin itself splits,
And soon I am covered in scratches and nicks—
Then I notice the pain and lick off the blood…
Why, who knew that shaving could be so much fun?