Why?

Are they really my friends?


If I am really their friend, why am I always left out in the cold?

Why am I always the last to know, despite the fact that I never blurt or gossip?

Why am I sometimes never to know?

Why is it that I'm the one that is always eventually neglected?

Are they really my friends?

Why must I share something personal of mine, just to be part of their club of little secrets?

Why am I never involved with group outings or sleepovers?

Why has no one confronted me about it?

Why does no one care if I was invited or not?

Are they really my friends?

Why is it so hard for me to keep close to my friends?

Why do I constantly think of their opinions about me?

Why am I never the one to be pulled aside to be spoken to?

Why is it that they tell everything to the least trustful person and not me?

Are they really my friends?

Why do we laugh until we cry during lunchtimes?

Why do they then push me aside to start serious discussion?

Why is there a group within a group that I'm never a part of?

Why am I always the black sheep?

Are they really my friends?

Why do I refuse to talk to them about this?

Why do I refuse to pull them aside to talk to them about it?

Why do I refuse to sometimes explode in tears and anger and neglect in front of them?

Why do I refuse to tell them what I think of their 'club'?

Are they really my friends?

Why do I have to constantly put up with this every lunch time?

Why am I always waiting for them to finish their share of whispers and giggling in my direction?

Why do I refuse to walk off and meet new people?

Better yet, why is it so hard for me to make good friends?


A/N - This is sort of how I feel at the moment. In summary, I have a lot of fun with my friends. But when the randomness and jokes are over and the serious chatter begins, they always shift away from me and talk in their little corner, casting looks back at me to make sure I'm not eavesdropping; in a manner of speaking. I always try to look strong and like I don't give a damn what they're talking about, when really, I'm sulking from neglect on the inside.