I know you. You were too short. You had bad skin. You couldn't talk to them very well. Words didn't seem to work. They lied when they came out of your mouth. You tried so hard to understand them. You wanted to be part of what was happening. You saw them having fun. It seemed like such a mystery, almost magic, made you think that there's something wrong with you. You'd look in the mirror trying to find it. You thought that you were ugly and that everybody was looking at you. So you learned to be invisible, to look down, to avoid conversation. The hours, days, weekends, ah, the weekend nights alone. Where were you? In the basement? In the attic? In your room? Working some job? Just to have something to do? Just to have a place to put yourself? Just to have a way to get away from them? A chance to get away from the ones that made you feel so strange and ill at ease inside yourself? Did you ever get invited to one of their parties? You sat and wondered if you'd go or not. For hours you imagined scenarios that might transpire. Did they mess with you? Did they single you out? Did you find out that you were invited because they thought you were so weird? I think I know you. You spent a lot of time full of hate. A hate that was pure as sunshine. A hate that saw for miles. A hate that kept you up at night. A hate that filled your every waking moment. A hate that carried you for a long time. Yes, I think I know you. Yeah, I think I know you. You spend a lot of time daydreaming. But they don't know, do they? About the long night shifts alone. The intense depression. The blinding hate. Depression. Well, maybe they do know. But if they do, they sure do a good job of hiding it. As if life itself was some divine gift. For you life is a long trip. Terrifying and wonderful. Birds sing to you at night. The rain and the sun. The changing seasons are true friends. Solitude is a hard-won ally. Faithful and patient. Yeah, I think I know you. I know you. I know you.
