It’s always been you.
It’s starts out small.
You’re five and your teacher tells your parents you’re too much.
You’re seven, and the teacher has to force someone to sit next to you on a field trip. You’re too odd.
You’re eleven and alone on a group project.
You’re twelve and you have nobody to say goodbye to when you change schools.
This new place is better you think. A chance to start over.
You meet people you can talk to, and maybe they’re not many, but that’s alright.
You can tell you’re not as close to them as others, but you try your best. It’ll be better. You won’t be too much. Whatever they give you is okay.
You’ll smile.
You’re fourteen when someone pays attention to you. But then again, it’s not really you, is it?
He wants something from you, something you’re not sure you’re willing to give.
Then suddenly everyone knows. And everyone talks and has opinions on what you should do.
So you sit next to him. And you hold his hand. And you dance with him and smile.
And you want to peel off your skin, to scream and cry. But you do nothing. Because you’ve never been here before, and maybe this is what it feels like to be picked.
Uncomfortable and disgusting, but love is a compromise, right?
You do nothing, until you break down, suddenly and violently, and someone finally tells you it’s okay to say no. That you don’t want this attention, and that’s normal.
And you tell him. And you break his heart. And you feel enough guilt to almost take it back. But you don’t.
And people talk, and call you mean and heartless.
And somehow that’s better. Somehow lighter.
You’re fifteen when your friends pull away. And you let them.
It’s not malicious you think.
One of them has a boyfriend, and it’s normal to want to spend all their time together you think. It hurts, and you don’t understand it, but there’s not much you can do other than sit and wait for the moments they come seek you out when they’re boyfriends not around.
And those moments are good. You talk about things you both like, and laugh and it feels like everything is back to how it was before. But these moments don’t last.
The same year, you have a falling out with your other friend. You were both going through things, and you fought a lot. It was the right thing to do for both of you.
But it hurts when you see them have people to turn to, and you have none.
You’re sixteen and it happens again. And you feel dumb, but you’ve both grown, and surely now it’ll be different.
He’ll be different. He’ll listen. His friends become your friends, you think.
And there you stay. For years.
Doing things you don’t want to do, saying things you don’t mean. Because surely this is normal. Sooner or later you’ll get used to it, you’ll feel what you’re supposed to feel.
But you never do. And you resent, and you hate. And the feeling of wanting to peel off your skin and rip out your heart grows.
Because you tried, really you did. Dates, gifts, attention, sex. You gave him everything he wanted.
And he never even got you flowers.
You’re nineteen when you finally, for yourself, decide to end it.
And you’re light again. But alone.
And now you’re in your twenties, still feeling like a child.
Wanting friends so desperately, but not knowing how to be someone without a mask. To be someone who doesn’t put up with things in the hopes of not being difficult.
And you still talk to some people, good people, good friends that didn’t leave. But they have lives so much larger than yours. And that’s not their fault.
That they can exist in the world so effortlessly, and you still don’t understand.
Because you never fit. You were too loud, too odd, then too silent.
And now you’re nothing.
Waking every day to no messages or calls.
And surely it’s you, because you’ve always been the common denominator.
