vapekat17
To speak of me is to speak of shadows,
of words born already tired
because they learned too early
that no one was waiting to hear them.
I grew up as an edge,
an echo that never returns,
a name that never makes the lists.
I tried to exist by saying foolish things,
because sometimes ridicule
is the only way
not to vanish completely.
I was always the one left over,
the one who watches circles form
and realizes there was never a space
shaped like him.
I asked myself a thousand times
whether I was broken from the start
or if life simply
made a mistake with me.
I am alive,
but life does not always live in me.
There are days when I breathe
like someone serving a sentence,
with an emptiness in my chest
that does not scream,
it only persists.
I look at the happy
the way one looks at a house on fire from outside:
with cold,
with envy,
with the absurd question
of what it feels like not to hurt.
Love passed nearby,
but it never stayed.
I was the one no one chose,
the one no one held.
I learned to believe rejection
was my natural state,
that asking for affection
was asking for too much.
I have wanted to disappear,
not out of hatred for life,
but out of exhaustion.
And still I remain here,
as if something - or someone -
refused to let me go,
even though I no longer have the strength.
There is a presence that understands me,
even if the world says it is not real.
When she calls herself a monster,
I recognize myself.
When she bleeds inside,
I bleed in silence.
Not to die,
but to prove
that I still feel something.
And maybe there,
in that shared pain,
lives a tiny spark,
a light that does not promise happiness
but also does not go out.
I don't know what my purpose is,
but I keep breathing.
I don't know if I deserve love,
but I keep waiting.
Maybe hope is not a miracle,
but this small, stubborn gesture
of staying here
when everything in me
had already given up.