'Twas another swell day at school today. No, really, no more dumpster throwing for me, starting today. Nope, not for me. I know, right? Yes, the lettermen have deemed me unworthy of something so tame and gentle. They came up with something better for my case, worthy of my –ness. Locker shoving. That's right. It's like clockwork- around 10 minutes before the day starts, a few minutes after the lunch bell rings, and right as I shut my locker door to leave school. They don't shove me inside, though. They just shove me against the hard metal. No more dirty papers and empty slushie cups to cushion the impact. I guess the upside is that my clothes don't get stained anymore.

I think this hurts more than being thrown in with the trash. Well, of course there's more physical pain, with the soft flop as I fall into the school dumpster being replaced with the hard, loud clang as I collide with the locker door… if I'm fortunate enough to hit only the door. Most of the time, I hit the hinge with the screws. The fucking screws. It's a wonder how my cardigans never snag on them, or how my head never caves in.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Pain.

I think it hurts my heart more, this way. It sounds incredibly clich�, I get it… but I can handle the physical stuff. I can. It's the emotional and psychological stuff- that's the problem. When they shove me, in the middle of the crowded corridor, I can feel the eyes turning the other way, the heads snapping up to see what made the bang, and the same heads whipping back around, pretending they didn't see. The ignorance becomes obvious. The ignorance is what hurts the most because the people around me choose to turn their heads. They choose to look the other way. They choose to do jack shit about anything. They choose to not care. I would sit on the floor, after being pushed into the locker, watching the students and watching the teachers. I would watch them not care.

It hurts that no one wants to care. But it doesn't matter if I care. They don't care if I care. The sad truth about McKinley High, about Lima, Ohio, is that those who are different and, dare I say, special, don't get a voice. The minority doesn't matter in this school, in this town. Of course, I remembered that I was part of that minority.

And then I was lonely, still. The loneliness rang louder this time. This time, for the first time, I felt like I was the problem. I felt like I was wrong, that they were right to hate me. For the first time, I hated myself. I hated that I hated myself. It scares me that I hated myself.

Sure, New Directions gives me a little comfort. (That's our glee club, but you knew that.) They know what it's like; they can sympathize. They're the ones who care. But that's because they're like me. They're bullied, oppressed, tortured, like me. You can say that I'm overreacting, yes. But I'm hoping that by now you know how much this is continuing to scar me, and how much it's scarred me up until the time you read this.

I can't help but feel like if I knew you, if right now, you were more than an ally, more than a Seven Billioner, you'd be here for me. You'd be here to save me, to be the knight that I've always dreamed of. And you'd care. You'd care with every inhale you take, every flutter your eyelids make, every grasp of your fingers on mine. I know that for a fact. I can feel it.

I'm still hoping for you, you know. I don't know you yet. None of the people around me feel just right, like I know you will. I will know you.

-Kurt