Second Best

Second best. All I'll ever be. Never first in anyone's eyes. Not even in my own. I want a friendship yet all o can receive is the temp job. My friends only want me if nobody else is around. I try to push them away yet the less friends I have. Push them all away for never being wanting to be my friend just wanting to not be alone. But i cant push them all. Bcs then if have nothing.  Like before. I'll turn i nto myself. I'll have nothing. Nothing but books and fantasy's. Nobody wants me. Nobody loves me. I don't even love myself. My body - I hate. Everyday I find flaws and compare my "abs" to others. Pride I had for how I look vanishes into the look of others toned bodies.  I let my self be second because I can never see myself as being chosen before another. I'm a back-up - accessible, replaceable, and easily forgotten. I don't even want to fight for the top spot. I shouldn't have to. I should be loved for who I am. Not how much time I have to hang out. I f*****g hate myself for putting up with all of it. But I can't stop. I can't stop. I crave attention from others even if it is misplaced. Every best friend I've had, every single f*****g one. Left me in the s****y dust and ran to the first available choice. I'm weak. I'm boring. I can't even talk right. I hate myself. I mother f*****g hate myself. I try to change. But it makes no difference I'm never wanted. I don't k now what to do. I'm deflating from the inside out. My face is in a permanent droop and a voice of hate is on record in my head. My body feels like it's been kicked to the curb. Foot prints are bruised over my body. My salty tears burn the cuts on my face as they run into the rosey blood. My spine is curved and I'm laying in fetal position. Each ridge of my vertebrae is outlined in lilac and gray contrasting with the washed out ash of my skin. I lay in my misery unable to get up. People walk by but help the girl up next to me. Cooing over her and then vanishing into the city lights. I'm left alone. Thousands of people walk past but don't even turn their head towards me on the slightest. I close my eyes. I see the dark. And I hope I never wake up.

Author's Note

Ignore my grammar. Do you think I could actually have a career as a writer?