Why does everybody take me as
Stupid?
And not just me everyone.
Everyone thinks
Everyone is
Stupid.
They think we’re too
Stupid
To understand what’s going on.
They think that we don’t
Catch on.
That we can’t comprehend
When we can and
We do.

They think we’re deaf too!
Like we can’t hear outside this door.
That we can’t hear
Every
Single
Word
They say.

They think we’re blind.
They think we can’t see
The bad things.
They think that we don’t perceive
The things
Behind our back
And the things they
Think
We shouldn’t see.

They think that we can’t feel.
That we can’t cry.
That we can’t feel melancholy.
That we can’t just
Simply
Hold the burning
Stinging  
Scolding
Tears back.
That we can’t hurt or ache
Because we didn’t hear, see, or understand
These terrible things.

No matter how hard we try not to
We always end up seeing it.
We always end up hearing it.
And then we can’t help but understand it.
We’re not stupid.
They just think we are.

            She is a musician. She is poor but still managing to smile. Her back is against the wall in more ways than one. But, for now, it is brick and grafetied down its side. She was never one for a life that wasn’t burdensome. Her taste in music is eclectic. She’ll play you any song you want to hear if you would only throw down a five. The guitar seems limp in her hands as she picks it up and begins to plays, at first softly and then louder so that the whole subway can hear. Or so she would like. In reality, she knows that no one is really listening, that they have their own lives; they are only walking by. And she knows that they may see her, disapprove of her, stare at her and maybe even pity her, but that they will never remember her. But, she keeps singing.

            She is frightened. She tries to take back what she said, but it’s hanging in the air like smoke. He comes closer. He was a good man. That’s what she tells her self. She tells herself to remember his eyes the way they used to be: light, joyful, and kind. The way they were before they filled with harshness. He is close now. She is struggling not to scream as he encloses around her. He throws her down, like he’s taking out the trash. She takes deep breaths and thinks about the makeup and the long sleeved shirts. He looks down at her, relentless. But she keeps breathing.

            They are friends. The stars act like their ceiling and the long, untrimmed grass like a pillow. The summer night surrounds the pair gently. And they laugh, quietly: joyful that summer is finally here. They are still learning the rudiments of life. They are still learning that life is not so perfect, so rife, as it once seemed. There is sound from with in the house. A mother and father at it again. They clasp hands. One shares the other’s pain. The same way they do when she visits her baby brother’s grave. The stars look more like debris now, because that’s what they really are: just bits of rock on fire. They realize how ugly everything looks when the covers are pulled away. They wish on the stars for a necromancer, a miracle, anything to take the pain away. But they keep laughing.

            We are a dying breed. We are seperated from the rest because we are different. We do not let ourselves fall, though we may skin our knees. We have learned that life is a tradgedy. We have learned that life is a delectable adventure. And we sit there, burnishing our stones, until they grow lighter, and glossier, and smoother, and clearer. And we keep living until we die.