And bloody hell, neither do I

I hate who I am; what I am. That I have to pretend, and brush things off as being trivial though they matter to me intensely. I'm sick of being stuck within the superficial. I'm jealous of those who can afford to be themselves, because what they are by nature is normal and within acceptable bounds.

I've never been one to conform to social norms, but even as I stand outside of them, I feel so very, very, alone.

If you experienced even a fraction of my struggle, you wouldn't be so quick to judge.

And it's not my fault that I can look at people and know them for what they truly are. I've spent so long pretending that now I'm practically a master at the art. Your petty feints don't fool me. Your badly placed diversions don't misguide me.

But what I hate the most, is that you can afford not to pretend, and yet you do. You cover up such inane things, so afraid of having people find them out. We are both guilty of pretending. Where we differ, however, is that I am not in a position to choose whether or not I pretend. It was chosen for me from birth.

We differ in that you are a white canvas, with thinly applied blotches of black where you try and paint them, clumsily trying to cover up what you do not want seen. Easy enough to see through if you are a painter. And I am but a black canvas, with neat streaks of white precisely where I wish them. It is given that within the depths of the black is a roiling turmoil, but you know about me, only what I reveal to you and let you know.

So do not pretend to know me. You don't.

You. Don't. Know. Me.