I am different.  I always have been.

A little girl is crying in the corner.  Her tears are on the inside.
Long, tired streaks down the ***** windows of her soul.
Her soul is old.
Her soul is different.

Shame.  Her t-shirt is never quite enough.
  It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame.
  Exposed.  Her shame; it burns.
Her shame is different.  

Her hair.  Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind.
  His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate.
  Her hair; it would be beautiful.
Instead her hair is different.

A little girl.  She is still to let the corner hug her.
  A plaster embrace will have to do.
  A wall that hugs; it's not so bad.
  This corner is safe.
Her hug is different.

A grown up girl stands in another corner.
Afraid to touch the pain across the room.
  The tears are gone.  Clothes are hers.
  Her hair is the same.
  That different corner still remains.

Go to her.

Clean her up.

Dress her shame.

Give her human comfort.

Any other girl.  But this one is different.  

She is me.  And I am different.

Undeserving.  And indifferent.