Lying in my childhood bed,
My legs point upwards,
Resting on the bed frame.
I scroll through instagram pages,
Emulating what I want my existence,
To look like.
Living in the fabrication of curated content,
Fosters realities that just can’t be existent.
It’s sad when I think about it,
So I try not to,
Move past,
Delete or cross through names,
That no longer mean what they used to.
I can’t let go.
If I let go,
Then I have to admit my failure.
Once again,
I let every fear and preoccupation enter my head.
Thwarting out the affection,
I anticipated his worst reaction.
Not thinking that you are enough,
Forces you to project your thoughts onto others.
So when we exchanged glances over the top of his cigarette,
I thought nothing of it.
For him he was locking eyes with the girl he wanted,
For me I was avoiding a guy I could never have.
Every time he pulled,
I pushed back,
Resulting in the inevitable.
The end came because it’s not cute to be uncomfortable.
It’s not attractive to protect yourself,
Out of fears that shouldn’t exist in your own head.
When people say they can deal with insecurities,
They do it because they have an illustrated reality of who you are,
I should’ve known that.
So now it hurts,
When I talk to other people,
I am so tired of existing with all these fabrications in my head.
I try to take the time,
And air to breathe,
But nothing seems to work.
I am still chasing the names,
And notifications,
That will tell me I am beautiful,
In hopes that I will believe it.
Plot twist,
I still don’t,
And maybe I never will.
I want this to end on a positive note,
But I am tired of saving face,
For a truth that I keep telling as a lie.
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