Outsider—
 even in a crowd,
  alone.
Always
on the edges—
 flailing,
  flailing in disconnection.

Too quiet.
Too strange.
Too little,
 Too much—
  never enough.

Why can’t I fit in?
 Why can’t I belong?
  Why always outside looking on?

I twist—
 I twist into shapes
that splinter,
 contort,
  until I fragment.

A mask knows
 It is a mask.

The true self—
 fragile as crystal—
  burrows deeper,
hiding in shadows,
 shielded,
  protected from the eyes of others.

For the focused sight of others
 would only shatter it further,
  break the brittle edges
   already too sharp.

What if they saw?
 What if they rejected?
I must hide my truth,
 my shadow, my self,
  tucked away like shards
no ONE may touch.

And in the silence—
 the judge inside awakens:
relentless, condemning—
 Why did you speak?
 Why did you stay silent?
You’ll never belong.
 You’ll never be enough.

Each glance—
 a verdict.
Each misstep—
 a blade turned inward,
cutting,
 again,
  again.

The jury within
 never rests.
Tortures.
 Unforgiving.

Why can’t I fit in?
 Why can’t I belong?
  Why always
a stranger to my OWN self?

Oh, how sweet it would be—
 to laugh,
 to sing,
 to dance in tune with companionship,
  to glide with the group,
free
to connect in truth,
 without shield, without hiding,
  without contracting.
without withholding.

But every step feels false—
 a performance stitched together,
  a brittle pantomime,
just to be tolerated.

Every note rings sour.

A soulless smile.
A rehearsed reply.
 The cover polished,
  the interior splintering.

The pain of faking a self
 to be accepted,
  scolded,
  reprimanded,
 unforgiven.
by Self.

Why can’t I fit in?
 Why can’t I belong?
  Why always pressed
against the glass?

And the circle closes—
 conversation turns away,
  the dance never asks,
the laughter cuts
 not with,
  but at.

So I shrink.
 Contract.
  Haunted by my own echo,
cracking
 under the weight
  of self against self—

like glass dropped
 in silence:
  a thousand sharp fragments,
scattered,
 unheld,
  unwhole,
each shard carrying
 the ache of a self
faked to be loved,
 shattered in the trying,
  still shielded
   against the light of others.

And yet—
 in a quiet corner,
one shard catches light,
 trembling,
  fragmented,
   yet alive.

It glows
 just enough
to whisper:
 perhaps one day
someone will see it,
 not to judge,
  but to hold,
to meet it gently,
 and in companionship—
  at last—
a self might belong.

Originally written: unknown, but dredged up from old teenage angst poetry