I always catch myself about to cry,
About the little things; the petty things in life.
Hoping that someday, someone will see me the way I see myself.
I do not wish to feel worthless, like a bestselling book never left untouched.
Dented, scratched, torn but always on the top shelf.
Until someone takes my shine and I am left behind.
But not far enough; always catching someone’s eye.
And what they see and think is not what they read.
I am an intelligent and beautiful being, but their thoughts tell otherwise.
No name, no personality, no feelings; just something people use to pass the time.
Like a small thought floating through minds acting as if every day I’m fine.
When I really feel like I’m diving head first into an abyss of lies.
Thrown in the return bin they’re unaware of the pages they’ve torn,
The food they’ve spilled the gum they’ve stuck.
Never checked for damages and put back on the shelf.
So that someone else can skim through my pages
And create a story.