What does she have that I don't?
What does everyone have that I don't?
I know it's self-pity,
But why has everything I've ever wanted passed me by?
Why must I be singled out and left alone?
Was there something that I missed?
What's wrong with me?
Everyone else has found their happiness,
So there must be a limited supply.
So I lose myself in Austen and the Brontës,
In the dirges that I write,
And the music that seems to cry as much as I do.
But every time I lose myself,
It gets harder to find all the pieces again,
Because Darcy, Wentworth, Heathcliff, Rochester, Knightley and the man in my dreams make my loss unbearable,
And life hardly worth living anymore,
Because the reminders are everywhere;
I have no hope,
And nowhere to look for it.
