How ironic,
To write poetry
That speaks of
Love
As if it were a familiar friend.
I write the thoughts too large and complex to store in my head alone.
I have not yet found
'My person.'
But I write as if we have known each other forever.
Maybe,
In the end there is no one for me.
But until hope is lost,
I write about you.
A person that I haven't met.

My person.

Her perfect smile,
Shines brighter than his.
But he is what everyone expects I want.
He is what everyone expects I need.
But she is so beautiful,
She's everything I desire.
I wonder if she ever sees me
and
Thinks the same.

My stomach hurdles over these seemly Insignificant tasks.
With every attempted hop I stumble.
Something as simple as washing dishes feels insufferable.
The bubbles don't hug me as they did when I was smaller.
They mock me knowing that I cannot do something so simple.
Life is a river and I'm just a twig along for the treacherous ride.
I'm swept away.
My feet cannot provide me stability, they don't root themselves into the soil like everyone else does,
effortlessly.

"Become perfect."
My eyes are glazed over
Delicate glass tears blur my vision
"Yes,
I promise."

My emotions feel synthetic
Fake feelings from a fake persona that I crafted to please you
If only I could live for myself
But I'm acting in a play
One without an audience
So who am acting for?
In those moments alone where I wail Who am I doing this for?
Constantly reinventing myself
But why?
I wish I could be free of this theatre
I hunger for the curtains to close
For the blazing lights to dim
And to sense the silent applause
Die out.