Journeys In London.

I really am from a different race to you.

You people who find this easy. Or even if you don't, you still have the strength in you to not look obviously, hopelessly out of control.

Terrified. Enraged. Broken.

So we must be very different, you and me.

I sit here, in the corner of the carriage. Keeping six seats to myself by the look on my face. Or maybe just the way I sit here. Screaming on the inside. Either way, I can get a big space to myself on public transport and you can't.

Which is lucky for me and no big deal to you.

I can't stand to touch you people. To be near you in close places. It makes my skin crawl.

Whereas you seem relaxed.

All of this is fine to you. You're able to sit there, motionless, gazing into space until your stop. You don't seem to wonder what's going on behind the eyes of your cellmates.

Whereas I feel like I can hear the buzzing of the insects in their heads. I stare at their eyes, ears and mouths.

Waiting for wasps to crawl out.

I glance nervously as a pretty girl walks by, scared for looking. Scared that she might see me and the look of repulsion that would spring to her face.

Scared that someone else will see me looking and somehow be able to tell what I'm thinking and scream "Murderer! Rapist! Paedophile!"

Not that I am. but that's all it would take for your kind to lynch me. We both know this. So I stay paranoid.

I miss my stop.

The wouldn't happen to you.

You wouldn't be so desperately trying to justify your miserable existence by creating something, *anything*, that you keep on scribbling away, forget to look up from your PDA to see your stop go whistling past.

And get off at Drayton Park.

And wait in silence for ten minutes for the next train to take you back one stop, feeling like a nudist at a football match despite there being no-one else there.

You're home by now.

You're happy.

I'm far, *far* away from home.

We're from different species, you and me.