Misfits – Solitude of I

“…misfits. We do not fit into this world without amputations.”
– Marge Piercy
 “All the colors of they are not the color of I

In mimicry I taint the skin of me

All the sounds of they are not the sound of I

In mimicry I change the voice of me

All the dances of they are not the moves of I

In mimicry I perform awkward ways

All the hopes of they are not the future of I

In mimicry I pretend a winning destiny” 

Waking in an unseemly state, I look around at my world of unbelonging. The crazy thing is that in my head is where my world is. It’s where the torments of mockers echo for years, where the pain of violence stings long past the healing of the body. I stay alone in my room, dark is how I like it there. My cave is where solitude commands my death of a thousand cuts. Each cut a remark, an injury, a symptom, a mental deficiency that demands my obedience to awkward and unusual ways. When I open my door and come out to play with society, my mimicry is perfected. Hidden beneath my smiling ways are necrotic tendencies that mortify normalcy. I reach out in the dark, on my bed, reaching out to an invisible God who seems to answer but in the most subtle and barely noticeable ways. What I want is a touch, a physical touch. It is not HE that answers physically but when another misfit finds me, then we both realize that we are not alone, but we belong to a group that will never stay together by virtue of our mental disabilities. Like magnets we are, spinning off the negatives of each other…no hold for my anchor, sending my vessel into dire straights.