I remember a time when I'd gaze around the room,
large spaces brimmed with beautiful women,
and wait for you to look at me.
I was standing right in front of you.
I wore the dress I thought you'd like.
I squeezed myself into a double zero.
I pinned my hair up "just right."
You always knew how to make me
invisible. I learned to play the role well.
She's the character I'd embody
to distract from the reality
that you'd never be good for me.
But oh, I'd still try to
make you see.
Oh, I'd still pray
for you to be the one.
It was always the disinterested
that interested me most.
Sometimes I'd parade around you,
my beauty blossoming like spring
vines at dawn,
and make myself feel
what you were never capable of sparking -
thinking if I created it from within,
then maybe I'd look the way they do.
Maybe your eyes would turn
and light up,
incandescent and refulgent,
as they do around others.
But they never did,
at least not in the same way.
I grew tired of trying
to be the one for you,
when you never tried.
Looking back, I have no regrets.
I don't blame that girl for fighting so hard
to be accepted, welcomed and seen.
In her battle, she discovered herself,
and the views from here don't require
a set of eyes on hers to be whole.
She found herself.
She honors herself.
She loves herself.