I’ve come from a very different place. I don’t look like you do. Where I’m from this is normal – but with you it feels odd. I try and make myself fit, but there’s no room. There’s too much of me – and not enough.
I don’t get it. I go to your meetings and I sit on the corners. I listen but I don’t often speak. I have questions: too many to explain. Where does it say that? What does it mean? You smile; but it doesn’t touch your eyes. You ask how I am, but you’re scared of the answer.
I’m scared too.
I’d like to know it’s okay. To be me.
I’d like this to be a place I can sit. Or talk or cry or pray or sing or not – and not feel ashamed.
I’d like for my kids to be welcomed. Not because you’re nice or concerned or christian. Because you like them – and you like me too.
I don’t want helpers. But I’d really like friends. Don’t stoop down to me. Please, open up.