She was born like you and I, from the bosom of a woman with good intentions and no idea what she'd done. She cried upon the horror of life, for she had not yet learned to swallow it, or pretend it would disappear if you turned the other cheek. Her parents smiled upon her, and hid doubt behind pearly teeth.
She grew like you and I, only ever learning from pain. At home, she never focused on one thing at a time, not because she couldn't, but because she seemed preoccupied. Her parents encouraged this, called her odd habits a 'gift' rather than 'budding mental illness'. Their toddler wanted mental superiority instead of Blue's Clues, and they gave her so, only ever trying their best.
She learned like you and I, only quicker, absorbing like a sponge and always asking for more. Her teachers were impressed, called her gifted, so they could overlook her introversion, pray that scholarly achievements made up for seclusion.
She spoke like you and I, but of the wrong things. When others spoke of joy and light, she'd contemplate death, and spoke of the morbid from a young age. She'd act smarter than everyone else, more omnipotent, called herself a 'higher being'. Others called her crazy. “I am not speaking down to you.” She'd say. “I am simply trying to show you your invincibility.”
She aged like you and I, acting like she knew more than she did, living in fear of what she did know. She was six million minutes old when she told her best friend that she was God, that we all were- wait, where are you going, why are you scared, don't you see? She told the same to her parents- they laughed, and used that same word, gifted.
She was you and I, and all of us, all at once. An army of doctors would call her ideas a phase, call her gifted. No one would listen, no one would hear that she wasn't gifted, she was a God- like you and I. She would learn of the universe, how eternal everything was, the godliness of humans, and wonder why no one seemed to care. Upon telling someone that their brain had one-thousand-trillion connections, that their mind could hold terabytes upon terabytes of memory, the person would shrug and say huh, I didn't know that. They wouldn't grasp how godly they were, inhibited by their own inability to realize their limitlessness.
She died like you and I, scared but sure, happy to embrace the end. She'd live a long life, but she'd leave the same way she'd come- alone. Scientific awards and scholarly achievements would fill her bookshelves, but no photographs, no mementos from loved ones. Perhaps a doctor would be there, to watch over her; they'd ask for her last words, and she'd whisper: “None of us are gifted.”