lon

i can recognize white people as a whole have systemically oppressed POC in america, which is where i live 

most people when they make white people jokes only mean the shitty white people and i am not a shitty white person 

donnie, who grew a little older, and with his voice came a tidal wave of emotion. he'd cry when they hit him too hard, scramble after them when they tried to play. he'd always come in last place. he'd sit at the table and refuse to eat, he'd always be told to not let his emotions get the best of him. he'd hide behind raph when he could, fumble his way through sports and the lair games and sparring. he didn't understand why his brothers thought he was somehow above them for not wanting to play along half of the time, even when he tried and tried. so he forced himself, even as it made him feel weaker than ever before.

donnie, who wanted to be lou jitsu more than anything, because that was who he knew he should be. but in the days where he curled up watching movies with his dad, he'd sometimes watch movies about knights and dragons and princesses and think, a princess could be delicate and be celebrated for it. she could be above it and never be shamed. she could be sensitive and be saved without feeling ashamed. it wasn't the helplessness he desired, it was the respect and understanding, for being that kind of person. and he'd think, why can't that be what i was supposed to be, instead of this?

donnie, who hurt his shell, and watched his brothers' mockery turn to worry, and then to pity, and then to resentment. he knew how they whispered behind his back, about how sensitive he was -- he has such a soft shell, it's so easy to hurt his feelings, he never lets anything go, he doesn't care about anything they do, how are they supposed to get him? and their words aren't even meant to be mean. frustrated, maybe, but they also came from a place of despair, in their inability to understand. and all it managed to do was make him clench his fists, and force himself to assimilate. to hide himself behind armor, to make his shell bigger. and with it came his desperation to hide away his soft, delicate core. he'd never be respected for his sensitivity, because that's not what he was made for. and when he watches mikey try to dig deeper into him, he can tell that mikey only does it sometimes to feel like a better person, to use him as a stepping stone to assert his own independence, and it frustrates him. because it only proves his differences. pity isn't respect. no amount of brilliance or intelligence will make up for that inherent difference, no matter how much he flaunts it. nobody is coming to save him from the tower he's been locked in.

donnie, who wakes up every day with no weight on his shoulders, and makes the choice every time he rises out of bed, to put that pressure back on his spine, to let the metal chafe his skin. he wears it under his hoodies built for people with bigger shells, and he wears it when he's laughing with them, when he's playing with them, when he's one of them. and his shell will always be different, look different. they'll always look at it and immediately know it's metal, and they'll know what's under it, but that's not the part that truly matters to him. it's that he can wear it on his back and feel just a little closer to them. he can be free and forget, even if it strains him, even when they sigh in frustration because they don't understand what he's so upset about, half the time, or why it's such a big deal.

and all he's doing is trying to hide the truth; that his shell is soft, where theirs are hard. that he is sensitive, where they are strong. that he has to fight an uphill battle, for the things that come effortlessly to them.

that they are boys, undeniably, and she --

isn't.