I look in the mirror and I see a face.
It's a young man's face.
He's got brown eyes.
His skin is the lightest of browns.
His face is round
And his chin has the slightest cleft
And his hair is short and black.
He is average in every way.
And sometimes,
But only sometimes,
He is handsome.
But I don't feel like him.
I don't feel like anyone.
What does it mean to be human?
I can't be one, otherwise I'd understand.
Right?
But I have emotions,
They just work differently than most.
They're stronger
Less restricted
And more raw.
Perhaps that is why I'm weak.
My anger is angrier
And my sadness is sadder
Happiness hides in its corner.
For fear of its own destruction
Upon the slightest emergence.
The Hurt is more painful.
Paper cuts deep into my bone.
My nerves are raw and exposed
For everyone to attack
And so I lash out.
Because I am hurt.
So I must hurt others,
Those who hurt me.
But then I'm pierced
By disapproving glares.
Because what I did was wrong.
But hurting me, that was okay.
The moral choice, even.
So how can I be human
When I am clearly so different,
So angry,
So sensitive,
So wrong?
And why do I see this human face
In the mirror?