I am the carpet others walk over.
They trample me on their way
to something else, somewhere better,
leaving muddy footprints on my chest,
caking my heart with darkness,
and mangling the fibers of my soul.
They don't apologize.
And still, I wipe off the mud after them, for them,
since I can't bear to see the dirt
ruining the beauty,
can't have their oversights staining me,
even if this extra toil turns out to be another mistake.

Because when they have no use for me,
when their feet are already clean
and I am no stepping stone to greater waters
but a mere straw mat in their way—
they roll me up and shove me into a corner.
Did Aladdin treat his carpet like this?
I was not woven to be a doormat.
My threads of silk still shimmer brilliantly
under all this soiled heartache.
I am an intricate tapestry, resplendent
with thousands of stories to tell.

But when I speak, no one listens—
or rather, no one hears.
Not even the people I address my words to,
the people sitting next to me,
my supposed friends.
It’s as if I’m a cloak of inaudibility,
swaying in the wind of silence
like a white flag all bared for surrender.
If I had a genie
and three precious wishes to make,
he’d have to tell me to speak louder
as many times as he’d had owners.
But my threads of hope
tell me it’s worth it,
that I’m worth it.

So if I had a burnished lamp,
polished with the same material as my body—
then I’d boldly wish to leave my own mark on the world,
to create a clean trail of golden footsteps
that anyone could follow.
I’d wish to be heard at last,
for my voice to ring out clarion,
clear and true as a halcyon’s call above the waves.
I’d wish to wrap my arms around everyone cold and alone,
my heart
a warm security blanket
with hope, love, and soft serenity
spun into every shining strand.