Writers Jam

it’s delusional of me to think i’ll ever be loved for me.
there’s always someone better, more deserving of their love.
i don’t add value to them.
i can be dropped,
forgotten,
never recognized,
gone.

my body felt like a grain of sand.
it felt like leaving.
see-through. transparent.

i didn’t hope for them to reach out.
i just hoped they wouldn’t mind me staying.

i wanted a love or a friendship that would fall apart without me.
i wanted to matter, to make a difference.

i tried to be friendly and loveable.
but you see, some things can’t act outside of their character.

the only place i can rely on — i carry it with me.

it’s okay.
please, step all over me.
imprint me with your inhibitions.
help me prove to others that i was once touched.

my sadness is a curled up body in the corner of the room.
its face is hidden and wet.
its back to the wall, knees in its hands.
synonymous with the furniture.

it’s silent.
holding back whimpers.
delusional to think someone would look
if it accidentally made a sound.

“i was never a child / i was pulled right out of the sea / and the salt, it never left my body..”

my sadness is a curled up child
whose parents forgot to pick her up.
and now it’s been years.