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.







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