Broken Habit

I am small, young, and predictable. But why that?
Can I not break away from the shell of expectance?
Am I simply the dutiful child who will never disobey?
Why can't I be a teenager, and rebel?
You know me and laugh. 'You?' Rebel?' No.
Yes! Why not?
You see the skinny good girl.
But I am addicted to sugar. Why can't I get fat?
It's more than possible, and again, you laugh.
Is that all you see in me?
Habit. What you've seen before?
What say you the next time we meet I am not white,
But have skin kissed bronze by the sun,
My hair chopped the length of a boys'?
'Oh,' you might say. 'it looks, good.'
But no, in your mind you believe it to 'not be her look'.
Your mind tells you so, because that's all you've known.
So who says fashion is what it is?
Who says what looks good, and what doesn't.
It should be what makes us feel right,
What WE like on ourselves to make our inside shine out.
These ballerina toes I tip on, painted black under my purple flats.
Tap to rock music in my lavender room.
This smiling fragile pale face lets dark hair fly about,
When it shakes in the air to a bass solo.
Who are you to judge,
What you don't know behind the façade of pattern?
You need to not know me so long,
So that I may dive in the ocean of individuality and change.
And emerge anew, odd thing you've never seen.