It's me who should know better
It's me who should make the sacrifice
It's me who should be strong
when others won't.

for what?

When did I get so used to
burn every inch of myself out
for acception and love
that no one grants me?

for what?

It's me who knows better
It's me who makes the sacrifice
It's me who is strong
as it's the only choice

for what?

When did it get so hard not to
wear everything on my sleeve
as opposed to hide them so
I won't be noticed?

for what?

It's me who is the fool
It's me who is the attention-seeker
It's me who is the weakling
still painfully invisible.

no reason, no consequence
no beginning, no end

after all, I'm the girl who can't hurt herself
who can't heal herself
who can neither exist nor perish.
It's me who is the utmost liar

no savior, no captor
no one, no one, no one.

You know you have no place among them.

They fit and form a breathtaking picture
like pieces of a puzzle.

Your edges are odd as they've always been.

But you aren’t a part of that picture
you can’t be a part of that picture.

Your edges are odd, you don’t fit.

There are so many people
there are so many pictures.

Your edges are odd and that's not required.

They don’t need or want your presence
maybe they aren't even aware of it.

Your edges are odd, it's not a blessing.

Too abstract, too fluid
the textbook definition of "nuisance".

You know you have no place among them.

Hello, I'm Vinca
you are not going to like me
and I will hate myself
so please, *******.

(actually, please, stay.)

Hello, I'm Vinca
I'm insecure, clingy, needy
yeah, a recipe for disaster
you have to save yourself.

(actually, please, stay.)

Hello, I'm Vinca
someone hasn't grown into
the girl her mother wished for
I understand your reason.

(actually, please, stay.)

Hello, I'm Vinca
not that I wished to
be Vinca
can you blame me, though?

I know, you won't stay.

I wouldn't stay either.

Hey
Do you know
how much you can inflict in me,
oh-so-easily?

Do you know
how I cherish every feeling you leave,
because that's all I have?

Do you know
is it you, or me,
who is being ingenuous?

Do you know
it's you who make me write ****** poems,
in a language that's not my mother-tongue?

You don't
thank you for that,
and everything else.

Sometimes, ignorance really is the bliss.

Could have been a masterpiece,
Could have been eye-opening,
a breath of fresh air.

Endless possiblities.

Could have been coloured and fiery,
Could have been subtle and graceful,
the result of years of perfection.

Endless possiblities.

Could have been all,
Like an empty canvas I was born as.
But I have been me.

The canvas is stained
tainted
spoiled

The canvas is stained forevermore.