Plastic Leaf

Every day I die a little. My heart grows colder, because I know that I don't belong. I can't fit in, or get it right, and so I will spend my days hurting those around me, or annoying them. I have no place in this life, but I flit among them, like a plastic leaf in a forest: not alive, but not able to die, a pale imitation. For that is all I am, a charlatan, a thespian, a pale imitation of the people I share this cursed plane with. I see the wonders in this world, and remember that I can have no part in them. Art, food, and flesh bring me no pleasure, for they are made for another's table, and I am an unwelcome guest. I give nothing to them, for everything I am is alien, anathema, and useless to others. I am an outsider, cursed to beat the image and expectations of that which I love and so poorly imitate. I want only to learn, love, and aid, but I cannot, for I am a plastic leaf in a forest, a stranger in a foreign land, and I speak not the language, nor uphold its traditions. In ways, I am strong, for i see more clearly than my more rooted neighbors. But in all others I am weaker, for I have no true life. Move me, plant me or care for me, I am still dead, and I cannot belong.