The Old Days

They said I worshipped Satan. Back when everything was sour as rotting milk.
Drip, drip. I ignored their words and mean stares. I ignored how they walked passed me and kept to the other side of the hall.
I never liked them, those other people. They were all to mean, to hard to deal with. Once, I had been one of them. I liked the same boys, I liked the pretty white dresses, and the cream colored eye shadow. I liked to hold on to my dreams and watch them spin like a kaleidoscope in my mind. I liked them, I did. I promise.
But why’d they make me do it? Why’d they make me do it, when I didn’t want to? When I told them no?
I couldn’t go back after that. It was like spilt milk, those old days, getting yellow and sour with age.