melted

being a wannabe

i want to dance

but i am awkward and clumsy, and the girl who i call star material (she is not that, she is made from the supernovas of microscopic photons, smaller yet so much larger) is beautiful when she dances, yet i do not hate her.

she is what i wish to be, but she says i am exactly that.

i want to sing

but my voice has turned airy from misuse and cracks at each note i strain to reach, and my peers who say i am better than they could ever wish to be (they are liars but i love them the same) are higher in the clouds, higher in the ranks than i could ever dream of.

i want to play

but the instruments stop calling my name along with the basketballs and hopscotch chalk, and my neighbors who invite me to play (i am just a hindrance to their games yet they love me the same) run faster than my legs could ever take me.

i want to love

but the couples i looked up to have all broken apart, and the family i once knew has split into splintered mirror shards, foils of each other (i wish for the children who have come after me, that they play with all the toy trains they could ever want, that someday i will have the capability to just drive them to an ice cream store and watch them smile, they are so young) with grimaces in the creases of their smile lines.

i want to like

but the kids have all run home, insignificant significance to others that might just be theirs, and i am by myself again (even in the spotlight he shines bright with just five words, and i am somehow content to watch him from afar) and they are so young and i am so much younger than i thought i was.

i want to grow

but the doctor says that the centimeters just will not add up, and the advisor says that the hours just will not add up, and the counselor says that the emotions just will not add up (the two houses have become fractured with lightning strikes everyone saw coming, yet only i was uninformed, as usual) and i forget to work out again.

i want to write words on a page that aren't just

that

you know, words on a page

and yet i still do, and some people like it, some people hate it, i barf out line after line and it isn't enough.

(i am not enough, it seems.)

but the people still jeer, i am heard amongst shouts of liberty and freedom for all humans alike, we are all the same built on sticks, encased in flesh, we bleed the same but it hurts differently, and my thighs become too wide and my heart becomes too wide and my reach becomes too wide and i am torn in half in a tug-of-war.

maybe, perhaps, you'll understand.