Why is it always me stranded in the purgatory of waiting, as though my existence were built to be the intermission in other people’s grand performances? I speak, I pour, I offer, and yet I’m met with hollow nods and distracted silences, as if my words were little gnats buzzing around ears that have long closed to anything resembling care. Why do I end up as the midnight solace for people who remember me only when their loneliness gnaws too loudly, when they need a quick fix of tenderness, a few borrowed sentences to patch the hole in their chest? They clutch me then, like a cheap blanket, but the moment warmth returns to their world, they let me slip back into the cold. Tell me, does no one ever pause to wonder if I too shiver in the absence of touch, if I too crave the kind of attention that doesn’t arrive on someone else’s terms? Why is my worth measured only by convenience, as though I exist to be summoned and dismissed? I am tired of being the lifeline people grab when they’re drowning, only to throw me back into the water once they’ve caught their breath.
@sparkandashes
