I once was a different person; no one knows it. Every once in a not-so-long while, a friend-who-once-was will pounce at my newness. “What’s wrong with you? You used to be so fun.” And a ditch is dug in my heart. A new one. But that’s okay because my heart is the scarred home of ditch-diggers. And every time it rains, the waters rush tirelessly through these ditches, and my pain is felt again. But that’s okay because I am new. Does anyone know it? No, or they don’t care. They waltz around me with their new comrades and their new “significant other,” and here I am in the background, watching, just watching.

You think that they have left me behind, but I know differently. I know the futility of it all. I have seen it. And I have seen things that they do not know that I have seen. And they do not know me. And maybe I do not know them. But I know me, and I know they do not know me because I am new. And no one knows.