When You Let Go Of Love Because Of Your Own Insecurities

I’m feeling like a stone floating
in the middle of the ocean,
an anomaly, an impossibility
but I exist anyway.
Defying, struggling to find my existence
meaningful, other than the person
I am, or think I am, at least.

I have to be more than I am, or just
I’m nothing special at all, not an expensive shirt
on sale for a day, not a food item
on a menu that is most popular
among vegetarians, I’m not the last number
on the winning lottery ticket,
I’m the last raindrop in a storm, I’m the earthquake
that everybody sees coming and nobody fears,
I’m something terrible that dims as soon as I appear,
I’m not that special, I’m not that wonderful,
I’m everything you think I’m not, I’m not an anomaly,
I’m human.

I’m detached, I’m sad,
I’m a mess of everything I never had,
I’m a completed puzzle that everybody admires but nobody solves,
because I look so complete but I’m still in pieces.
I’m the thin sewing thread that holds the wound together,
that you can feel as a foreigner on your skin,
I’m every jacket you buy but you never wear again, I live in folds
at the back of wardrobes, you caress my sleeves everyday but
never take me out to breathe the sunlight and air.

I’m the crumpled gift wrapper that eventually drifts
under the furniture, collecting dust, but once I covered
something that brought you happiness, I was full of secrets
I was the star and your eyes were the telescopes,
you were hoping to see within me with just a glance,
but it was all for nothing. I’m now torn and unwanted,
My secrets are all openly ripped from my chest and I’m
collecting dust as days and years go by.
You buy new presents every year and I see your smile
and the twinkle in your eyes.

I’m the flowers that withered in the backseat of your car
I’m the posters which are barely hanging on your wall,
I’m the stranger in the street that you never recognize,
because we are strangers, yes, we are.

I’m the choices I made,
I’m the pool of tears on the table,
I’m the sad songs in your playlist,
I’m the love that you never let go of,
I’m the hate that replaced my face in your mind,
I’m a stranger to you, but you’re my reality.
I’m delusional, and you’re real.

I’m the half-empty sketchbooks you abandoned,
I’m the blunt pencils and knives you keep in an old mug,
I’m the loose shoelaces that you never tie properly,
I’m the ear-marked page in the book of your memories,
you marked me but you never re-visit,
I’m the 2:05 A.M on the clock that never lets you sleep,
I’m the number in your phone that you never delete,
I’m not the one you should want to love,
I’m not the one who deserves the compassion,
It’s all you, darling. I can never overcome my weaknesses
and you’re the one who deserves someone far more strong
more stable,
not someone who feels like a stone floating on the ocean,
but a cruise that keeps you afloat.

I’m a drowner, in every sense of the word,
I’m a submarine and you’re the aircraft,
I’m not what you deserve, I’m the sponge that absorbs
tragedies, and you’re not one,
not yet anyway.
I write long letters and you can never concentrate,
I’m not the one for you, but you’re the one for me.
How tragic.