It Had To Be Me
Out of the 20 bulbs in the ceiling, one never turns on.
Out of 2,000 tiles on the floor, one always squeaks.
Out of 2 million people, it had to be me.
How do I crumple my own bones?
How do I put myself in a Pandora's box?
What must I do to become pretty, to have money, to be him?
Why is he all that and more? Am I not enough?
I know the answer - I'm not.
He never looks my way, but I can't blame him.
Does he avoid me because I never talk to him?
Or do I disgust him too much to even bother?
I feel like a ruined canvas, discarded and unwanted.
How do you talk to a broken poem,
To an unfinished rhyme, to sour wine and infinite vines?
It's as if I'm trapped in a paradox of my own creation.
Perhaps the right question isn't how do you,
But rather, how could you?
Why did you have to be born with it all,
And not me? Did I do something wrong?
Well, clearly, I must have.
How do I become you? Maybe in another life I will,
But first, I must end this one,
So I can let you live.
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