You don’t know me, but if you did you would know how easily my heart breaks—at the sound of a baby crying, a wolf howling, a deer fighting for its life.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know how much I cared that I never fit in, no matter how hard as I tried. You would know that I wanted to be something big, but I was given a mind that kept me small. You would know that I loved deeply and fell hard when that love was not given in return.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would see that I am not like most people, and that bothered me. That I cared too much about what you thought of me—the way I dressed, the sound of my voice, how I walked.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would see that I could not understand why I was not loved or cherished, why nobody believed in me. And that made me try more, but also, fall harder.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know that my heart was fragile, like glass. And how I hid that weakness, even from myself.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would have asked how my day was and how it felt to be me. You would have wanted to know about my hopes and dreams, and why I liked chocolate ice cream, and how I always wondered why the sky turned orange when the sun set. You would have wanted to know why I hated the movies, but loved television. Why my phone screen always hurt my eyes, and how the ground felt powerful beneath my bare feet.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know that I hated to be touched, but longed to be included. That I had so many words inside of me, but could not find my voice. That I worried about the trash piling up and destroying our earth, and sometimes this would cause me not to eat for days.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know that I was afraid of the very thing that would help me—to be known, to be touched, to be understood.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would know to look me in the eye as you passed me in the street so I would no longer feel invisible.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would have known that I was planning to leave this earth if things did not get better. You would have tried to stop me, but it would not have worked.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would have known the voices in my head would tell me things that were wrong about me, and right about you. How much I hated being smart, and yet there was so much about the world I did not understand. How algebra came easy, but talking at lunch was difficult.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would see that our differences are what made me stand out, and how I thought this was a curse, not a blessing. How I knew how to make friends, but did not know how to keep them.

You don’t know me, but if you did, you would have known that nobody could touch that place inside of me that felt broken—not even me.

You don’t know me, but I am your son, your father, your friend, your pastor, your waiter, your aunt, your boyfriend, your banker, your husband, your teacher, your UPS driver, yourself.

Dedicated to all those who have left this earth too soon. We wish we knew you just a little better.