Clothes Line

Even as a kid,
I felt like the odd one out,
like everyone else,
was carved out of marble,
and I was just a picture,
ripped out,
of someone else’s coloring book,
that was colored,
outside the lines.

 

As I got older,
the pretty girls had boyfriends,
and I had books,
that held the romances,
and the stories,
that I craved to have,
but never could,
because I was the fat girl,
and the smart girl,
and the book worm,
who hid her personality,
behind sweatshirts and tees,
because I was too afraid,
to show my real skin,
because everyone else’s,
was prettier.

 

I watch my friends,
get boyfriends and girlfriends,
and get checked out by boys,
at the mall,
while they don’t even glance,
in my direction,
because my entire life,
I’ve hidden my problems in bags of chips,
and doughnuts,
and late night trips to the fridge,
and I could see all of that food,
on my thighs,
on my stomach,
and on my round face,
and I still do,
except now it’s not just fat,
it’s scars too.

 

Always hiding behind puns,
and dirty humor,
and funny jokes,
but if anyone had ever really,
taken the time to see,
what I looked like,
when the jokes were stripped away,
they would have seen a girl,
hiding away,
behind baggy clothes and excuses,
and desperately wanting,
someone to care,
that she was trying.

 

I’ll be honest here,
when I say that,
I don’t think it’s true,
when boys say that they see,
personality first,
because I was relatively funny,
and I was relatively kind,
but I was never relatively pretty enough,
so they never saw,
that I was relatively worthy,
of their affection,
and I felt that rejection,
like a car crashing,
into a brick wall.

And now I’m not,
relatively anything,
because I’m not good enough,
for the forehead kisses,
and the comfort of sleeping,
on a strong chest,
and the bashful glances,
at shared family dinners.

 

I am nothing,
I am the silence,
after a bad joke,
and the lack of money,
in the homeless person’s pocket,
and the fading high,
from a drug addict’s perception,
and I am never anything more,
will never be more,
can never be more,
because I’m the flip of a page,
and the crinkle of a chip bag,
and the sound,
of thighs rubbing together,
and I let people use me,
and hang me up to dry,
until I’m nothing,
and even then,
I feel like I’m less.