Vulnerable

Location

Vulnerable, as if everything I am is stretched out on a wire.

Stubborn (at least that's how I see myself) up to a point,

waiting for a chance to turn away, to erase what I see in the mirror.

Because what I see in the mirror is not myself. At least, that's what they say.

 

They say I'm beautiful and pretty and cute, but all I see is the tears that roll down my face 

counting markers where teenage memories left scars upon my heart,

where I can't erase them. I want to erase them, I do.  

But what I see as myself is not myself, or who I knew myself to be.

 

It's hard for me to see myself other than who I plaster myself as upon my phone, pictures and

statuses and dreams that I might never accomplish because I was so afraid of showing the real me

I  made up lies to cover up who I really am.

"Strong," they call me. "Wonderful."

 

I've forgotten my own name. I don't feel wonderful or strong; I feel lost in a land I have been

rejected in; beaten- down.

 

We take comfort in forgetting ourselves: food fills that empty void inside of us, or so we tell

ourselves; makeup covers the scars we try so desperately to hide from those we want to love us;

and smiles, to make us forget why we ever started crying.

 

No. No, I don't feel strong. I feel weak, stretched out on that wire I'm trying so desperately to keep

stable, hanging in the streets, waiting to drop down below, into the intersections.

I may be stubborn, but it's only because I'm hanging on as I hear the cars below.

 

I've forgotten why I'm hanging on when I've forgotten my name and how I look like.

As I hang there, I hear the names they call me.

"Beautiful," "Sweet," "Intelligent."

But then come the cries of "Shallow" and "Weak" and "Weird."

I tried to filter them, but I felt unwanted without the mask I had made for myself with words 

typed upon screens, screens that hid who I really am.

I'm only trying to hang on, can't you see that?

I'm barely haning on. I can't feel my fingers anymore, trying desperately to keep up with the words

you call me.

 

As I start to fall, the only name I will remember will be the last one you called me.

I remember the picture, I remember what you typed.

If only you had known we were all hanging on by that wire, all waiting to drop.

The way I fly, straight down, is not where you wanted me to go. 

But it's where you sent me.

 

"Unwanted," you said. 

And so I fell, and I could hear every car horn blare past as the heartbeat in my ears echoed.

 

I just wanted to be wanted.

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741