You.

You are the very same person
The one who will not dare to cry in public
One who once searched for love and
Kinship in people

You realized at a young age
That faith can make
Or break a person
That hymns cannot save hearts from destructing
That pews are meant for the weak
And hope came in a bag of offerings

That people should stop trying to construct homes in hearts
Nor attempt to seek shelter in embraces

You feel how comforters do not necessarily render comfort
That warmth on a cold lonely night could come in a stick

That love is merely a word

Holding hands feel foreign because no one does it anymore

You are a queer child

Who prefers the gift of words

Hugs over constructed apologies

You notice things

Across the street at that coffee joint
That broken window that no one wants to fix due to soaring numbers and empty tables
The barista manages a smile and conversation despite it all
You wish that he would tell the truth when asked "How are you?"

How are you, really.

You see torn promises and slit wrists
You sense heartache
Behind these bright cheery smiles

You sneak a shot behind your glass of pretentious non-fat latte
You stop and eavesdrop on the chatter
You write about them
Bits and pieces that you string together in hope of solving this mental labyrinth

You understand
That thunderstorms are not scary, people are
That the personalities portrayed are facades

That sometimes
People forget that other people are human