This piece lays bare the quiet agony of invisibility, the feeling of existing on the edge of others’ joy, always reaching but never reached for. It’s the lament for the heart that keeps offering love into the silence, still burning softly into the dark, waiting to be seen.
Why is it never me?
Why am I always the one looking in,
Face pressed to the glass,
Watching a world where everyone else gets chosen?
Why am I never the favorite?
Never the one their eyes light up for –
Just a name they remember
When the room is empty,
Or when no one better shows up.
Why is it never me?
Why am I never the one they see?
I scream in silence,
But all they hear is noise.
I’m always the almost,
The afterthought,
The echo of someone they’d rather have.
Always the shadow, never the tree.
I stand, rooted in quiet pain,
Growing in places no one notices.
My leaves stretch toward a sun
That never warms me.
I bloom in the dark,
But who cares for flowers no one sees?
Why is it never me?
Why am I never the favorite?
Why am I always the one reaching,
While they run to someone else?
My heart is a gift still wrapped,
Still waiting,
Still untouched.
I’m the last to be grabbed,
If I’m chosen at all –
Like a coat left behind on a warm day,
Useful only in the cold.
A whisper in a room full of sound,
Drowned out by louder, brighter souls.
A lost star –
Not fallen.
Just forgotten.
Still burning,
But never wished upon.
Why is it never me?
Why do I keep hoping,
When hope has sharp edges?
Why do I keep loving,
When love never turns back to look at me?
Maybe one day…
But no.
Even my maybes are tired now.
Even my dreams look the other way.
