One drop less in the ocean and the boat still floats. You still call it a desert when one grain of sand gets lost in the furies of the wind. Conferences will go on if one person does not show. A painting that is missing one colour can still be deemed beautiful.
Even through the lens of a microscope, a sense of worth can no longer be found. "It's like if you erased me from the picture, everything would be the same. Perhaps even better." How easily one returns to the comfort of the norm after such tragedies.
Cuss that shit.
Vanity, vanity. Rhymes with insanity.
Second-string. Understudy. Benchwarmer. Runner-up. Irrelevant. Substitute. Red shirt. Less than.
"Dammit. I'm done."
My body is weary. My heart is heavy. Longing for purpose, longing to be seen, only to be pushed back into the shadows, behind closed doors: hidden from view. "It's because [they're] embarrassed by you." A joke, yet subconsciously taken to heart. It must be true. Cuss.
Expectations. By who's grading chart? By what criteria? "I can't take it anymore." Being constantly judged, being constantly graded. What's the freaking point. "I am my own, and no one else."
Just drop it. I'm tired.
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