Simply Less

The feeling of being left out, or simply just "less".

I’ve never known how people do it so well.

Step into a room with great stories to tell.

Wealth in number or wealth in friends,

I hover at edges and try to pretend.

I’m not always lonely whenever I’m alone,

It’s just nobody cares, not that nobody knows.

It’s the feeling that something got lost on the way,

Some part of me missing that helps people stay.

Too broken for comfort, not broken enough,

Too soft for the world, yet expected to be tough.

There’s always a reason my pain doesn’t count,

I guess others have more, a larger amount.

I sit in the glow of their easy embrace,

And count all the names that would fill up their space.

One hand could contain all the people I’d call,

While theirs spill like water and flood down the wall.

It’s not that I want what was never mine,

I don’t pray for their blessings to ever decline.

I just watch their joy from over the fence,

And wonder why belonging requires such expense.

The weight of a wound is a strange thing to hold,

Mine feels made of iron, theirs forged out of gold.

When somebody breaks, they are gathered and heard,

When I split apart, I’m reduced to a word.

There’s always a story that’s darker than mine,

A deeper abyss and it’s harshly defined.

So I stack up my grief beside everyone else,

And leave it to rot on a forgotten shelf.

I measure my hurt with a crooked old scale,

And somehow my side is expected to fail.

The numbers are there, but they never stay still,

They bend to the shape of another man’s will.

They tell me I’m lucky, resilient, and strong,

As though being sturdy means carrying long.

As though all the splinters that hide in the grain

Are somehow erased when the wood bears the strain.

I’ve carried things quietly, year after year,

The kind that should earn someone patience or care.

Yet somehow the lesson I’m forced to repeat

Is that surviving alone is not proof of defeat.

So I smile at the tables where everyone fits,

And laugh at the jokes while my confidence splits.

Not jealous, exactly, just tired, I suppose,

Hanging on doors I’m ignoring are closed.

Because maybe the ache isn’t wanting what’s theirs,

But knowing how heavy the silence one wears.

Knowing some hollows grow larger with time,

And still having to convince them you’re fine.

So throughout my pain, I’ll support all to the end,

And treasure each person who chooses to stay a “friend”.

But some nights I still count the lights in the town,

And wonder who truly will let me belong.