All I wanted was to see a smile, to hear a word that didn’t hurt,
I’d go to sleep at night thinking about how different it could be,
How happy I’d be if I could only go through the world unafraid,
And in my vision I would have a friend who listened and who cared.
Every morning it’s the same. I wake up knowing that they are waiting,
Putting on my clothes I try to make it so I’m invisible, a ghost—
That way no one will notice me walking down the hall,
No one will call me names and trip me, my books spilling on the floor.
Every day I have to live in this hell that others call life, waiting,
Knowing that each classroom brings its own special torture,
That each bell calls me to yet another soul lashing,
Another stinging name they’ve invented for me to keep the wound raw.
I did nothing except not knowing how to act or what to say or how to belong,
And so they took my shyness and used it to make sure I’d pay for my disdain,
Making me the target for all their own pain and anger, the crucible of their cruelty,
Each day spent inventing some new way to make me bleed tears.
That old singer is right—there is a meanness in this world.
They took from me everything I was, everything I wanted to be,
Finally, they managed to take away my reason for staying alive
So I went home and locked myself in the bedroom, made sure the rope was tight. . .
And put an end to the unendurable pain of belonging nowhere, with no one, ever.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
All I wanted was to see a smile, to hear a word that didn’t hurt,
I’d go to sleep at night thinking about how different it could be,
How happy I’d be if I could only go through the world unafraid,
And in my vision I would have a friend who listened and who cared.
Every morning it’s the same. I wake up knowing that they are waiting,
Putting on my clothes I try to make it so I’m invisible, a ghost—
That way no one will notice me walking down the hall,
No one will call me names and trip me, my books spilling on the floor.
Every day I have to live in this hell that others call life, waiting,
Knowing that each classroom brings its own special torture,
That each bell calls me to yet another soul lashing,
Another stinging name they’ve invented for me to keep the wound raw.
I did nothing except not knowing how to act or what to say or how to belong,
And so they took my shyness and used it to make sure I’d pay for my disdain,
Making me the target for all their own pain and anger, the crucible of their cruelty,
Each day spent inventing some new way to make me bleed tears.
That old singer is right—there is a meanness in this world.
They took from me everything I was, everything I wanted to be,
Finally, they managed to take away my reason for staying alive
So I went home and locked myself in the bedroom, made sure the rope was tight. . .
And put an end to the unendurable pain of belonging nowhere, with no one, ever.
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