I am not normal,
and yet I am.
I am part of the crowd,
separate and alone.

It is normal to feel this, they say.
But I don't want that,
this is personal;
no one feels this.

Except for everyone.

No matter how much I wish,
what others have, I lack.
It torments me, calling out, taunting.
I reach for it, but it is beyond my grasp.

I am not poor, it is not possessions.
I seek memories,
memories of good times,
of school and friends.

I have never been to house parties,
never been with friends,
killing time at night,
never been a normal teenager.

And yet I have.
I went to school, argued with parents,
wasted time, enjoyed life.
My friends and I, we have had fun.

But these moments are islands,
pieces of happiness,
instead of inundation,
of friends always together.

Am I missing something?

No. It may seem flawless,
but underneath it is cold and black,
filled with sadness and pain,
heartache and emptiness.

I have experienced all these things,
but these too are islands.
To be abnormal is a protection,
from the world around.

If that is normal, do I want that?
My brain rejects, knowing the truth.
But my heart longs for it,
that vague notion I will never have.

But that is not the life I will live,
desperately clawing at an idea.
Because, if I am normal,
am I really myself?