Something's different.
It always was,
I could see it
from the start.
Exactly what
I couldn't say,
but it made me
an Outcast.

I started to tell
when ten Barbie clones
gushed on and on and on
and on about Ken
and mine didn't join
for I was still sewing her dress
as child-goddesses looked on
and gave impatient looks.

I could sense it
on the playground
a boy said he'd be Raphael
and use sais
and my look
was as blank as his
when I said I'd be Leonardo
and draw a picture.

I could feel it
prickling, sickening,
as I listened to my peers gossip,
twittery girls with clown makeup,
as I, walking solitary in the hall,
pondered the implications
of cloning, time travel,
and temporal paradox.

It hurt me
saddened me
when I heard Jacques,
the idol with shadow hair,
talk to his friends,
and the most significant thing
to come out of his mouth
was "dude."

It was cold
in the classroom,
at seventy-six degrees,
as I sat with the teachers
and discussed chlorophyll.
Sixteen faces turned
from playing Smash Brothers
to stare.

I touched on it
when I turned
as the librarian called,
said my name from the counter,
and told me my book came.
The smile in her eyes,
level gaze meeting mine
without condescension.

I found it
in a room
talking with you,
and you understood,
looked at me,
and we knew...
We weren't alone.
We were fellow Outcasts.