i am not pretty
looking in the mirror is self pity
every tiny wrinkle from the stress my brother’s mental disorder gave me
i am ugly in the doorframe
in your eyes
maybe in every way

i am not gut wrenchingly sad
i don’t have nearly enough trauma
for my fingers to crinkle after writing
for my lips to quiver in the silence
for all the creases in my face to shiver
in the shadow of an abusive hyperbole

i am not fun
i don’t enjoy talking to freeze frames
people who don’t know my name
i don’t have many friends to make the dangers of the world mute themselves
and go away
life of the party, who what, who is she?

i am not a good person
i make excuses out of nothing
we get it, i choose rationalism to stop from getting injured
maybe nice isn’t part of my personality
i have to try so hard to be capable of speaking that it comes off rehearsed

i am not a genius
i never classified myself as sharp
or smart
kind of just a loser
trying to make sense of the world through art

i am not well known
like a fly in a mansion
the breeze even forgets my name once in a while
i should have been there a while ago
yet i paced inside my room
anxious of what everyone would do

i am not bright
i have no ambitions except seeing your eyes sparkling while the moon shines
no goals, i am never gonna be able to go to college
or be accepted into a marriage
forever alone

but i am so skeptical
and i have the most pessimistic view in the world
i don’t think you could ever love me
so you might as well give up now
or leave me out of the show
left wandering the streets of town
capable of suicide
but more the death of other’s souls
alone, alone, alone