Poetry

I was a lonely child. Though people were around me, my thoughts made me distant. So, I tried to change—tried to be softer, funnier, cooler—to fit in with a crowd that wasn’t mine. I tried to find a home with people, but I failed. Now, years have passed, and I’ve spent all this time trying to accept that humans fade in and out of each other’s lives.

I wake up every day unable to keep connections with those around me. Some days, I want to be close to my friends and laugh until I cry, but the next day, I can’t bear to be with them. They say I speak too little, but what’s the use of talking when you know they won’t feel as you do? I’m not antisocial; I fantasize about not being what people expect me to be.

I’ve stopped defending myself and others. Detaching seems like the only way I can get through this lifetime. I’m not empty; I’m filled with rage and love. What I will do with it, I don’t know. I’ll spend one more hopeful night and fall asleep under the shadows of uncertainty.