I know you. You are too short. You have 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, and it seemed like such a
mystery—almost magic. It made you think that there was something wrong
with you. You’d look in the mirror trying to find it. You thought that you
were ugly and that everyone was looking at you. So you learned to be
invisible, to look down, to avoid conversation. The hours, days, weekends.

Ahh, 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 some 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.

Do you ever get invited to one of their parties? You sat and wondered if
you would go or not. For hours you imagined the scenarios that might
transpire. They would laugh at you. If you would know what to do. If you
would have the right things on. If they would notice that you came from a
different planet. Did you get all brave in your thoughts? Like you were
going to be able to go in there and deal with it, and have a great time. Did
you think that you might be “the life of the party?” That all these people
were going to talk to you and you would find out that were wrong. That you
had a lot of friends and you weren’t so strange after all. Did you end up
going? 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?

Yeah, I think I know you.

You spent a lot of time full of hate. A hate that was as 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. You couldn’t figure out what they saw in the way
they lived. Home was not home! Your room was home. A corner was home. The
place THEY weren’t, that was home.

I know you. You’re sensitive, and you hide it because you fear getting
stepped on one more time. It seems that when you show a part of yourself
that is the least bit vulnerable someone takes advantage of you. One of
them steps on you. They mistake kindness for weakness, but you know the
difference. You’ve been the brunt of their weakness for years and strength
is something you know a bit about because you had to be strong to keep
yourself alive.

You know yourself very well now and you don’t trust people, you know them
too well. You try to find that special person, someone you can be with,
someone you can touch, someone you can talk to, someone you won’t feel so
strange around. And you found that they don’t really exist. You feel closer
to people on movie screens.

Yeah, I think I know you.

You spend a lot of time day dreaming and people have made comment to that
affect telling you that you are self involved and self centered. But they
don’t know, do they. About the long night shifts alone. About the years
of keeping yourself company. All the nights you wrapped your arms around
yourself so you could imagine someone holding you. The hours of indecision.
Self doubt. The intense depression. The blinding hate. The rage that made
you stagger. The devastation of rejection.

Well (sigh), maybe they do know. But if they do they sure do a good job of
hiding it. It astounds you how they can be so smooth. How they seem to pass
through life, as if life itself was some divine gift. And it infuriates you
to watch yourself with your apparent skill in finding every way possible to
screw it up.

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-one ally—faithful and patient.

Yeah, I think I know you.