There’s some cruel irony
of being the most compitent, best version of yourself.
The Queen Bee,
acclaimed and accomplished, the accolades spilling from two A4 pages of applications.
Trying as hard as I might,
it is not enough.
The rejected X or the silence says it all.
Is it my hair? My quirks?
The questions bubble and rise like the tides as I lurk
online and read deep into fictional beings
but find it difficult to talk to the real ones?
That simply trying is not enough for them.
The lioness’ roar which emerges from the kitten
as pages are shredded in furious tantrums
and phones are thrown into pillows.
Work is hard, it burns when I let myself get hurt.
But still I try.
Head bowed, wings clipped,
the rivers of tears forged across my face.
I turn to the sun outside the window, and smile.
It’s blubbery, watered down and
For even if I stand alone
I stand proud.
Too much and not enough – rendering it all entirely moot.
Stuck at Square One, staring up at my goals
like Tantalus and the fruit.
But if I just looked left or right once in a while
I might spot the ladder and the right place to set my foot.
Image courtesy of Simon Berger.