The Watcher

There's this tree, out by Howell Park, with bark so soft it crumbles over the lightest touch and holds the indents of our initials. There's this lake, that hides our deepest secrets in its murky water. There's this girl, who drives to the mountaintop every Sunday morning after church and stares down just wondering what it would feel like to fly. There's this boy, who hides his pride flag and his pills in the shoebox under his bed. This mother who works two jobs because her husband got laid off but comes home to an empty house and the sound of her baby crying from its crib. This father who drinks because he thinks he married the wrong person but can't bear the thought of leaving his children. And everyone is always laughing or crying, smiling or screaming. There's always someone out there feeling something. And you are - watching.

Watching the trees blossom. Watching as the girl moves to the beachside and watches the sunset every night and as the boy flushes his pills. Watching as the mother finds her support system and the father finally learns to let go. You watch people laugh and love and live their lives so full of noise and color and a warmth so unrecognizable to you that you almost don't see it. A bustling crowd moving in a direction you just can't seem to find. You've been the girl on the cliffside. You've hidden parts of yourself away and ignored the shadows lurking behind you. You are not who you want to be. You see other people - glowing, complete. But no matter how hard you try, you always seem to be stuck watching.