Paloma

At twenty-five years old

You would’ve thought I had everything figured out.

Wrong.

Everyone’s lives are a well written play,

Mine is a first draft.

There’s a palpable darkness.

I spend nights sitting on the edge, but I never jump.

I would like to jump.

Every day I ask myself, what the hell keeps me here?

Push me.

I would like to be a wild lion

that rules the jungle,

but I have to be a dove

with broken wings.

White dove.

Admired.

They all want to touch me

and have me in their hands.

None repair my wings.

Why is perfection the only option?

Is failure not human?

Am I human?

Am I even here?

Why am I here?

I'm yelling at you!

I’ve become deaf with my screams

And still you ignore me.

You ignore my daily prayer.

You’re supposed to love me,

unconditionally.

You ignore my power.

You have made me small.

Small and forgotten.