Sorrow is something that is such a precious gift in life, yet it is also one of them most profoundly crippling emotions known. It is something that tears one into two, turning trials of sanity and insanity into a torturous dance, a dance which moves the tides of self-destruction. Yet it is something that can be honestly said is our own; no one else can ever have it, and no one can ever take it from you. It is one of the few things in life that is truly my own.
I still recount all the times growing up thinking that there simply was nothing for me; All the times I watched my family pour over my siblings, giving them every fiber of their love and devotion, while I was cast out to the pasture as though I were defected. It consumed my mind, and to this day still does. I am inferior in all ways. I am not intelligent, nor am I skillful. I am not attractive, I will never satisfy. I am destitute, and I am hollow. I feel nothing but endless pain, and I know that as long as I live this pain will persist.
I just want a touch that says more, and a love based beyond the manifestations of lust and empty pleasure. I envy all of those around me, even those who may rationally have greater misfortune than I. I wish to feel, I wish to live.
Nobody understands, yet everyone understands.