i have lived
my life.
i have made friends and
mistakes and love, and
all the other things between.

i mean, i don't like to go out much - so what?
i like my room quiet - is that weird?
solitude is
sorta my
thing.
i feel alive, there.

my thoughts, alone,
in my
head, are
still real.

i have
lived my life
******. yet
i still feel
a hand
as cold as the window sill
in the middle of winter
crawl up my back
and give me that
condescending pat -
"we know, kiddo. we know."