Our Own Errant Humanity

They see you but they do not see you, not really, not properly. They look at you with eyes wizened by the weariness of this world, with a gaze tempered by mistrust and unease. They look at you and they see nothing but nothing, no feeling or personality, save the one they have imposed on you. They see you but they do not see you, nobody does.

Nobody but me.

I look at you and I see nothing but everything, the total sum of possibility encapsulated in a single soul. I look at you and I see everything, the good and the bad and the ugly and the beautiful, all the rage and the cruelty and the kindness and the calm. I look at you and it hurts, it hurts to see you and see you, but it’s not a hurt carved by a blade or drawn out with blood. It’s a hurt that aches, a hurt that longs, a hurt that starts small in your chest and slowly captures your whole body.

They look at you and it hurts, but it is not a good hurt. Their chest does not ache, it shrivels in disgust turned inward, disgust they won’t acknowledge. Their body does not shine, does not glow, does not even flicker.

They look at you and cry monster; I look at you and say human.