I am scared.
I am afraid.
I am undeserving –
but I work,
I try,
I do what I can.

People say
I have earned this,
I have worked hard,
that I am strong.

Then why
do I question everything I do?
Why do I doubt if I even belong?
How did I get here?
Why –
why can't I let go?
Why do I keep going?

Even though I hate it –
even though I am tired of it –
even though I try, and I fail –
over and over,
and over,
again and again,
and again.

I fail.

Yet,
I still try.
I still keep pushing.
I still get in my head –
I –
I still struggle.

Over and over.
Again and again.

This is my cycle.
I cannot break it.
I try –
I do –
but in the end,
the cycle always wins.

Put on a smile,
put on the face.
It’s fine,
it’s okay—
because I won’t let them see me break.

My family, my friends ask,
“How do you take on life so well?”
But the truth is, I don’t feel well.
I feel incomplete—
like a big mistake.

I fill the hole
with music, with lyrics people sing,
with grades my parents praise,
with meaningless television.

I fill the hole with noise
so I can't think.
Because if I think…
I will break.

The sun is shining,
the wind is blowing,
the water is cooling —
this is summer.

The kids are playing in the pool,
the parents are watching while talking to the others—
this is summer.

But the older kids,
the new adults,
they are nowhere to be found.
They are hiding,
hiding from the empty boxes.
They are in mourning —
of their childhood.
They are letting go.
This is summer.

The older kids stay inside,
Where they hear the giggles, the joy, the laughter —
Where they hear the water splashing —
Where they will never be again.
This is summer.

The older kids remember when it was them,
with their parents,
with their friends —
but now their stomachs ache to go back.
They wonder where all of their time went.
They want to go back.
But they can’t —
they’re already leaving.
They watch the kids play in the pool
they used to called their own.
Now, the older kids are moving on.
This —
is summer.

Looking around the park, there are people —
couples, friends, family.
Some are holding hands in the sunlight,
some are laughing as if the world has no wounds,
and some just talk
softly, like the moment will last forever.

I watch as their faces light up,
and I wish —
I wish it was me.
Me holding someone’s hand.
Me having a ride-or-die.
Me having a partner for life.

Looking up into the sky, I ask,
“When is it my turn to be loved?
To not be a burden,
for it not to be one-sided.”

I look back down. I see no one by me.
No fingers lace with mine.
No one is laughing beside me.
No one is with me.
And no one notices.

I am used to being alone,
though I don’t like it,
but I tell people I do,
so they don’t pity me,
so people don’t worry.

I sit down on the bench, unseen,
and alone.