I like to indulge
in what they call
"delusions of grandeur."
I love to think that maybe
I am an incredible poet
and that people have been amazed
by my mastery of words and how
I translate my pain
into ink-scratchings.

Or maybe the twisting vine doodles
that wind their way around every corner
of my every page are unique
and unprecedented
and alluringly artistic.

Perhaps
I am beautiful
and no one has discovered me
yet.

Or slightly more possibly,
my pain might just be dazzling
and only I
can make my feelings seem interesting
and beautiful.

But this is my favorite
of all my fantasies,
the one I save
for when I need hope.
I will grant myself a minute of thinking that I,
out of everyone,
am more important,
more special,
to you.