I don't know why,
that when I read a book,
I mark my pages with crimson prints
Of my own identity.
I feel as though if I didn't,
They would never find me there.

I don't know why,
I can't pray in public,
Without people looking at me strangely,
As if I were in some drunken stupor of hallucinations.
It just isn't fair to me.
My anger burns like a Scripture in flames.

I don't know why,
When I wear high heels,
That some unrealistic form of karma overtakes me.
It makes me slip and fall, twisting my ankle.
But of course, if it didn't,
I would have to wear those shoes all day long.

I don't know why,
when I read a book that
I can feel the wind through my hair
And the smell of fresh cut grass and cheddar chips.
Maybe it's my imagination? Unlikely.

I don't know why,
That when I'm teased in public,
That people stare like deer in headlights, waiting for the blow to come.
At least acknowledge that I exist,
And don't join in the taunting.

Pray for the misfits,
The geeks,
The depressed,
And the broken hearted.
Because you may never know
what they're going through.