Pushed to the limit

To feel like an outsider in your own circle of friends,
it’s like trying to tie the ends
of a stick together.

Stiff,
unnatural,
too frustrating to comprehend.

Like trying to find your voice in a crowd of one hundred,
desperately crying out to find use,
yet only finding your throat
can only take so much abuse.

Hoarse,
beat up,
pushed to the fucking limit.

To wonder if you are even cared for, desired,
pondered on, thought of,
or if a candle will one day be lit in your memory,
goes to show,
that that fire of the candle may not even have a purpose.

Weak,
second best,
unwanted at most.

For a girl who appears to have a simple, uncaring life,
she often thinks,
sometimes even dreams,
of the reds and the pinks
that love holds.

Because she feels as if the love she asks for
has to be beaten out of those she holds close,
has to be stripped away from them with force,
as if the love weren’t given willingly,
but given as if to run its course
so that the girl can feel what she wants most:

Hope for the day where she can look someone in the eye
and know that they are there
not because they are black and blue
from the girl
pulling teeth so they too
love her,

but because they also have tried to tie
those ends of the sticks,
hoped for the flame of a lit memory,
wanted the bright colors of a blazing love.

So that day the girl can feel peace,
knowing her love is returned,
not with hope, but with assurance.

That she is not alone,
not alone at all,
because right now,
the emptiness echoes like her chest was left for dead.

Heartbroken,
shredded,
and pushed to the fucking limit.