Wishing for you to see me
Is like wishing for the moon.
Futile. Pointless.
Leaves me with surround-sound shadows
And these endless taunts for myself.
(I always know what buttons to push).
This wishing is a defeat,
As it passes from thought to tongue
Until it's as though
My world has grown too small.
Insecurity.
It's something I learned young.
I have fostered it behind closeted doors,
and in return it has taught me caution.
And I think, now that I'm older,
That I want nothing to do
With any of it.
What do I have left?
A wish.
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