Forgotten

I wrote to you before. Words never to be read, only to be felt because I needed them said. I asked you to please ask God not to forget me. I needed Him, too, and wanted love. Words I never thought to say while you were still here and words I never would have been able to muster the courage to say loud enough for you to hear.

I never once knew where I fit in, but they said you were proud when you came to see me play—masked in black I proudly wore. Masked--because I was only secure in what I loved when my own features were hidden or otherwise obscured beyond the normalcy of what I called my "self."

I struggle with things I never understood until you were gone. Knowing that I would have been closest to you--if I had been allowed to know you, instead trapped with a fear of speaking as loud as it'd take for you to hear, and an understanding that anything less would never be heard. Considering suicide often because there was no place I fit, because there was no one in any way truly like me.

The support I needed was denied because of the dysfunction of everyone around us. Not because I wasn't loved or cared for, perhaps, but because others swam beneath the surface waiting to attack like lurking piranhas. I never got to know you, and I've never been able to get beyond that because too much went with it—too much importance to be shrugged off and forgotten just because of time. Time's cruel grasp clutches the depths of me as I realize there's so much I've never forgiven because I've been afraid to admit I needed you to forgive.

I wonder if the fears I have, and always fight, will ever be able to truly be buried as you've been for years now. If only I could bury them away with you rather than have them resurface years down the line with a family of my own, questioning, even then, whether I fit in.

Loneliness is hell and I wonder if while I encountered it throughout all my earlier years if we were even more alike in our parallel struggles in hell while we were so close in physical proximity, but more distant than the stars. Am I doomed to spend all my life in the hell I've battled so long before?

I've heard that to truly find love you must risk it all. Must be willing to bare the most uncomfortable depths of the soul that none other has truly known for it cannot be based on a lie. Sometimes I know I am willing to take that risk--others I know that I am afraid of the rejection that has always plagued the shadows of my heart. But always, always I wonder if God, too, perhaps, forgot to remember me.