I think I’m not enough,
not enough for the people around me,
for the world I’m amidst
and for myself;
I think I can never be enough,
for anything,
anything at all.
I think I’m always going to struggle and never reach my happy place,
never reach where I desperately want to,
I think nothing is going to be ever smooth for me,
I think something will always come in the way if I’m finally about to grasp my moment of clarity.
I think no matter how hard I try, things will just never get right for me.
Because, somehow I just know,
my life has made it known to me,
that I’m not advantaged,
that I’m not in for luck,
that the universe is not with me.
Maybe I deserve all of it.
Maybe I don’t deserve to reach my happy place.
Because, I’m pathetic,
I am ugly
I complain too much
I dream too impossible
I am too weak
I want too much
I probably seem like a wannabe
trying too hard to make things happen;
I think I’m a pretense,
I hate people who body shame, and I give them off a mouthful when they do it in front of me to someone behind their backs,
I look at all these skinny girls and plus size girls smiling broadly in the photographs and I think to myself,
“ These humans are beautiful, they’re wonderful to be so loving to themselves and to be so brave to show it to the world ”
I say I’m comfortable in my body and I don’t want to change it in any way
but, at the darkest hours, I wish I were like those girls who looked more feminine,
I say girls in all sizes and shapes are beautiful and feminism has nothing to do with having too much curves or much too less,
but when it comes down to the naked girl stating right back at me with her slender legs, her skinny back, her small chest and not perfectly toned stomach in that mirror,
I body shame her, I call her ugly, I say, “ You look disgusting ” and then I throw clothes over her tiny body to hide her.
I say I need no love of a boy to be happy and feel complete, I say I don’t need the affection of a lover, and that I am better off alone away from all that mess and complication;
but then when I watch all these movies about love, I so shamelessly watch those moments with longing in my eyes and a warm smile on my mouth and I hate it,
I hate to be that way but I can’t help it;
I want to be independent and live my life alone cause I am always better when I am alone and because I have crowned myself with the title of
‘ introvert ’ ,but I feel lonely at nights and I feel like I am searching for something, I feel I have a longing inside really loud and prominent for belonging to something, to someone, to a place or just whatever.
I know and agree and admit that more than fate or luck or destiny, hustle is what makes people reach that centre stage staged before a cheering crowd of a million;
but,
when it comes down to me,
I just am top convinced,
I believe,
and I just know,
I’m not meant for that glory,
and will never reach there,
cause I just have felt the
hatred
the hostility
the disgust
of the universe for me
and it’s a fact that I don’t deserve any of it,
because I’m so desperate
my soul is pathetic
and, despicable.
And, I don’t know why I'm still breathing as the filthy creature that I am, hoping and still wishing and waiting for something great,
because I know my life won’t be that way,
what’s the point of all this desperate struggling then?
Why am I still existing?
Because I am that coward that’s scared to kill self.
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Poesía" where she is the queen " At this point, my words don't even mean anything, my lines are random, my meanings are all over the place, my endings are left in the middle. I've not the slightest idea if I can compose something coherent. It all feels li...
