I hear you.
I hear you through the crowd.
I hear your pleas, although they’re silent. I want to help make them heard, understood, a memory. But even when I reach out to you, you shy away with snide comments on my physical appearance.
I see you.
I see you walking with them.
I see you when you are with your so called friends. I used to be you. Popular and beautiful. I used to sucker punch people’s egos as well, just as you do to me. Your face looks cold and cruel, but your eyes look pained and troubled. You know its wrong, somewhere in you, you know. Yet you let it continue.
I feel you.
I felt your hand on my cheek.
I felt the force of that slap on my face. Taking your frustrations out on me. I felt the pain, not just my own, but your’s too. Your life is hard and you put up a good front. I felt your rejection. The earth shattering fall you took, the ground shaking in your wake.
I know you. Even though it took me two years to really see, hear, and feel you. I know you now.
And I’m sorry.