I can tell no one who I am. What I am. Without being attacked by the wolves that surround me. I walk a fine line in the middle. I try not to stray. I am of one side, yet also the other, and neither group can understand, for I disagree with both as well.
Stop the name-calling. Stop the hurting. A house divided against itself cannot stand. "We are not of the same house," the wolves say, though they are.
Or aren't they?
Oh, it hurts. To see such division. To hear such hatred coming from those who claim to profess love. "Burn in hell, heathens!" both sides cry out, unwilling to look into the mirror of their own souls. And yet I wonder: if both are heathens, then what am I?
I am nobody. I am all and I am nothing. I am something. But no one will ever know, because I can step away from the line and blend into either crowd, walking silently, unnoticed, because I do not speak and they cannot hear that I am different.
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