(Iāve been writing so many poems so hereās one I re wrote)
They told me life was chance,
a handful of straws held in a trembling fist.
Close your eyes.
Pick one.
And ever since,
I've wondered what would've happened
if my fingers had reached
just a little farther.
Maybe I would've been normal.
Maybe I would've been beautiful.
Maybe love would've found me
without asking me to beg for it.
Maybe happiness would've felt
like something I deserved.
Instead,
I carry things I never asked to hold,
fight battles I never chose,
and answer questions
I never wanted to hear.
People say,
"Life isn't fair."
As if that makes it easier.
My heart was never made of stone.
It was made of glassā
clear enough for everyone to see through,
fragile enough to crack
at the smallest touch.
Every harsh word
finds its mark.
Every insult
becomes another fracture.
Every disappointment
drives another shard deeper.
People say,
"Don't let it get to you."
But they don't hear the echo
those words leave behind.
They don't feel how every sentence
that tells me I'm not enough
settles inside my chest,
making me feel smaller,
weaker,
wrong.
Then the mirror joins in.
It asks questions
I never wanted to answer.
Why aren't my eyes enough?
Why can't I love my hair
the way everyone else seems to love theirs?
Why do I spend so much time
wishing my body belonged to someone else?
I search for flaws
until they become all I can see,
forgetting that a mirror
can reflect fear
just as easily as it reflects a face.
I'm surrounded by faces
that smile just enough to fool me,
words that sound kind
until they become whispers behind my back.
I've learned that not everyone who stays
is really there.
And when I finally find someone real,
someone who makes the world feel lighter,
I hold on too tightly.
Not because I want to trap them,
but because I'm terrified
that if I loosen my grip,
they'll disappear too.
Some leave without warning.
Some slowly drift away.
Some simply move on,
while I'm left standing
where we said we'd always meet.
So I stare at the tiny straw in my hands,
splintered from being held too tightly,
and ask the same question
over and over,
Why was I the one
who had to learn that hope can ache,
that trust is fragile,
that love doesn't always stay,
that mirrors can become enemies,
and that words can wound
long after they're spoken?
If fate was drawing names from a hat,
why did it stop at mine?
Why did I get the short straw,
while everyone else seemed to walk away
with lives they never had to question?
But some nights,
I still hold that tiny straw in my mind
and wonderā
what kind of person
I could've been
if I'd only reached
for a different one.
Maybe then
my heart wouldn't feel
like it's always one word away
from shattering.
Maybe then
I wouldn't be so afraid of losing people.
Maybe then
I wouldn't look in the mirror
and search for reasons
not to love the person staring back.
the short straw
was never the measure of my worth,
only the weight
I was asked to carry.
(so yea I wrote this during 7th grade and re-wrote it now with more experience in writing poems)
