You ignore me sometimes.
You pretend that I'm not here.
You say to your friends that you don't know me.
A portion of you wants to believe yourself.
But you don't.
I sit on the steps in front of my house sometimes.
I see you walking in front of my house, just passing by. You see me, but you don't wave. You don't even smile.
Sometimes I see you outside the pizzeria near my house smoking a cigarette. You blink and look away.
Other times I see you tightly clenching something in your left hand. You don't tell me what it is when I ask.
You know that the truth hurts.
You leave the door to your house open because you don't care who walks in.
You laugh as a bird flies into the side of a house.
You keep a straight face as you crush a leaf that fell from a tree.
Why do you always walk past me?
Why do you hide whenever you hear a siren?
You think I don't notice when a small bag of white powder falls out of your pocket. You kick it away from the view of the surveillance cameras.
Who are you? This is my question for you. Who are you? You're still figuring it out yourself. Who are you?
This is who you are.