Bird

       The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as their eyes search for the little sparkling gem that is non-existent in the cavern of my mind.
"What do they want?" I mutter, stifling a glare and replacing it with a wide, friendly smile. They smile back, but I can feel their minds pouring something at me.
I hate it when they stare.