In my world
I am invisible.
I’m here,
though often,
I go unrecognized.
You say that I’m original.
“Special,” you like to say.
But I can see the lies behind your words.
What am I to you?
Nothing.
Here I am,
open and available,
and still,
you drive right by.
Day after day
you drive through my heart,
and flatten my hope,
without even looking back.
I wonder if you do this to a lot of things,
gently receive their love,
then throw it out,
along with the rest of your unwanted trash.
But then again,
I think of what you said.
How I’m original.
“Special,” as you like to say.
And I remind myself,
that I have to be the only one,
the only one,
caught up
in the lies I wish were true,
and the truths that I don’t hear.
What am I to you?
Nothing.