Leftovers

I’ve always felt like leftovers to you. The one you would only seek out when it most benefited you. When my plans were set, you were always “regretfully” busy with plans you completely dismissed me from. Did I even cross your mind? As you were drawing a line between us until you needed what was mine. I was simply a wallet of sorts, a pawn shop whose currency was your retorts, but I stupidly kept coming back for more. I wanted someone, no matter the chore. Again… I’m your leftovers. The ones that get slowly pushed to the back of the fridge, awaiting their impending doom of rot. Silly me, I forgot. I’m merely an acquaintance that you’re forced to act civil with. I’m a friend of a friend, the friendliness though never seems to extend. Oh, my emotions will bend to your every desire. You see, I crave what I will acquire from putting up with this tiresome transaction. That’s really all this is. A transaction among factions of people as I’m enacting my revenge against those who make me feel feeble, but I can’t. That would make me lose. We’re not equal. I am the friend that can be left out when the sidewalk is too slim, the table to small. I am disposable, replaceable. I am the one who doesn’t really matter at all. I am the leftovers. The one that’s not quite palatable anymore. The last resort when the groceries are running short. I will bleed and cry for you to simply try to see me. But I am not the main character in this story of life. I’m an extra without lines, blurred in the background to give the room more life. With my life feeling unimportant, I say my final goodbyes.