On a night like this, I’d write.
I’d pour it all onto the keyboard, I’d let my fingers scream and shout and cry for the girl who doesn’t—for the one who puts on a smile and pretends it’s all right. The fingers would bleed their long-suppressed feelings—my feelings—until nothing else remains but pure, untainted sorrow, the sorrow of being, how would you say it, dear? Of being wrong.
And, God, there’s so much wrong that it’s eating away at your insides, day in, day out. There was a time when the sense of wrong was overwhelming, but there was also hope—maybe one day, maybe some day the wrong will fade and something else will emerge, something wonderful and unique, a phoenix from its ashes, a butterfly from a drab and dry and dead cocoon. You didn’t really believe it, but there was time, time, that elusive enemy of all that’s vibrant and pure.
Yes, there was time.
Time is running out.
Time is running out and there’s another group you don’t belong in, there’s another corner to hide in while you wonder if it’ll ever happen. But you know you don’t deserve it—whatever that elusive “it” is—you don’t really deserve anything, and so, as these things go, inexorably led by some greater judge that imparts their justice on the unworthy likes of you, you don’t get what you desire.
And by now you know you never will.