it’s fun, at first.

to watch from the outside

knowing you won’t be there

     (but oh, you pray you will)

the first time you’re left out is a knife

gouging through your ribs

aiming for your gentle heart

     (it misses, but only barely)

you get used to it after a while

the blades turn into forks then

toothpicks that revive a dull ache

     (sometimes the knives come back)

once you think you’ve escaped

you’ve found your place, your people

they pull away from you again

     (you’re just a floater, that voice nags)

you believe you’re replaceable

you aren’t part of a group so

you make it your mission to be kind to people

     (and maybe you desperately hope that that will change something)

but it never does.

you are still your own sad, lonely island.

the skies are gray and you hope for sun

     (but you know it won’t come)