I am insignificant.
I am unlovable.
I am the abomination that travels time
in my mind,
never finding peace of this life.
Reality overwhelms and depletes me
for I am undeserving.
I am nothing.
I am the echo of a mother who had no
affection,
the image of a grandmother sick and
divinely twisted,
the mimic of my father and all of his
masculinity
channeled into the pound of a fist.
I am the heart of this home- empty,
my void filled with self loathing.
Pain.
Suffering.
How do I accept this daily?
How do I find the motivation to use
my tongue,
to speak out?
How do I climb above what is done to
me?
I don't.
Happiness was never meant for me.
Love was never to be a piece of my
future.
I am this,
the ghost that fades through life, touching no one,
hearing everything,
feeling it all.
And I weep.
I weep for what I never had,
but always imagined to be in my
grasp.
I weep for the loss that is my life.
The suffering.
The abuse.
The constant, dismal dismission.
For that is all I’m worthy of,
this is all I was meant to be.
Nothing.
I am the ghost.
A small poem I wrote while completing a manuscript. It was adjusted into the novel because it not only fit me, but my character.
