She

The thoughts start to weigh her down again. They come from nowhere sometimes. A song on the radio, an offhand remark, something she read on Twitter. Suddenly sadness overwhelms her, but on the outside you'd never know. At least she hopes you'll never know.

She's always felt alone in the world. Like it twirls around her, mocking her, in some sort of dance, while she stands there wishing she could belong. But she gets passed over too much to feel like she can belong.

It was always like this. Her father drove into her that children should be seen and not heard. Now she feels she's neither. Can a person actually be invisible? There have been times she's wondered if she was. She knows there have been times her voice has been drowned out by the crowd. By the time she has found a place to say what she wanted to say, the conversation has changed. So what's the point in trying to talk? She's even afraid to say things on Twitter. People say the craziest things online, the worst things people can say. But she pours over every tweet, hoping she's not saying something that will hurt someone, something that doesn't sound stupid, something that won't give offense. As it is she deletes most of her tweets. Rather safe than sorry.

That's how she's lived her life. Safe, yet still sorry. She gave up what she loved for safety. Because it was for the best, for stability. And now she's no longer stable. Things are falling apart all around her and all she can wonder is what would have happened if...

She thought she found a place for herself long ago. A place where she could slip on someone else's skin and be them for a while. She thought she was good. She thought she had found her voice. She even sang for God's sake! Alone. In front of people. People who listened and appreciated. What would have happened if she had continued? It might have been hard. It might have been impossible. She might have ended up in the same place. But what else might she have found? A new life? So many people would be gone from her life, replaced by so many others. And one of those others might have taken the time to change her life.

She always thought she would find "the one." Doesn't everyone, though? She always loved from afar - deeply and strongly, but in silence. She broke that once, and it broke her in return. Still, she expected that someday a man would see her for who she really was, not the poor imitation that walks around every day. Not enough here, too much there. She hoped for a man whose lips made her skin sing. Whose eyes - warm and brown like melted chocolate or the searing blue of a summers day - could pierce the walls she'd built up to protect herself. Whose soft voice soothed her and yet spoke louder than all the others in her head. Whose arms were strong enough to hold her together and gentle enough to hold her while she slept. Someone to see inside where maybe she was better, maybe she was beautiful. Maybe. She could never be sure. Maybe she was beautiful nowhere. She now believes that soulmates are something only meant for other people.

She heard that if God doesn't give you something it's for the best. She wonders, is God protecting her from the men who would tear her irreparably apart? Or is He protecting the men of the world from the train wreck she has become? Whose best interest is He concerned with?

Now she tries to kill that butterfly of hope that persistently abides in her heart. Hope has become a schoolyard bully, raising her up for reality to smash back down. And reality always smashes back down. She prefers to live in a world of her own creation. Fed by books, movies, comics, music, television. A world where she is always a certain age, always a certain weight, always heard, always seen. Maybe still in the background. She's no longer eager to throw herself in front, to force her voice out, to bring attention to herself. But she still craves attention. A little. Is that bad?

She thinks she might be done for. She sees no way out. No miracles are coming. Can God give up on her, even when she still loves Him? Has He washed his hands of her, given her up for a lost cause? Can He do that? Is His love, like the love of so many others, meant for everyone else and not for her.

She trudges on. Berated by hope and reality. Dreading mirrors and reading too much into people's comments. Craving the moments when the inner monologue subsides and she can feel, if not joy, at least peace. She trudges on. But if she's perfectly honest, she can't say she hasn't wondered what gun metal tastes like.