The mean girls called her “weirdo”, saying friends we should not be — but she was wonderful to me, a laughing playmate, wild and free, in days we ran down by the sea, when we were eight years old.
The mean girls called her other names, a “bookworm” and a “nerd” –but all of that just seemed absurd, so quick was she with glance and word, although her voice seemed seldom heard at fourteen years of age.
She wasn’t very popular when we were seventeen — but she was good to everyone, and beautiful, and full of fun, her long hair flying in the sun, her stories still untold —
She’s way beyond the mean girls now, those days are far behind — but somewhere, in her secret mind, a sadness you might never find – that cruelty sees where love is blind, in each successive stage —
For know the truth: humanity knows no depths to its cruelty, and any way you look you’ll see, more weirdos there, like you and me, who know the outcast poignancy at very, very young —
Yes – very, very young.