I’ve always been lonely, alone in a maze of my own thoughts, trapped in a cell of others’ making. I’ve always been alone. I remember the first times I felt it–taking care of my little sister, wondering if I was doing it right, having no one to ask. I never had friends, not real ones, because we moved so much, and when I found some, they left or I did, or I pushed them so far into a corner that they disappeared, leaving me lonely. Again. And you left too and so did they, those loves who meandered in with promises and pieces of a life I dreamed of, those vivid glimpses into a joy I could never quite reach. These memories, standing outside, the glass frosty from my wanting, my lacking, grip me in tar, my feet stuck to land and I watch everyone float by on rafts of happy, on boats made of life, ships filled with people, and I’m alone, ankle-deep in empty. No wonder I never share. My parents, my friends, my lovers–they glide by and barely wave, and they never see my tears, the ones plastering my hair to my cheeks, the ones carving canyons into my skin. I never told you these things because you left too soon, before I shared too much, but you broke my heart anyway. I never told anyone, probably never will, but I’m always just so lonely.