Shelf.

 Why use my pain against myself?

Why turn my insecurities into real fear?

Why make it seem like that is all I am worth?

 

I can’t have friends because they always want something more?

My personality isn’t enough for someone to want me around?

All I have to offer is my body, and nothing else?

Is that what everybody expects from me?

Sex? Desire? Luxury? A one night stand with the girl who accepted she isn’t worth it?

 

Am I not allowed to live? Am I not allowed to interact?

Should I live in terror, being cautious and alone?

Should my existence be restrained to a single room

Where no one can see me

Where no one can reach me

So I live like a doll

At the corner of a shelf

Just collecting dust

While life passes me by?

 

I shouldn’t trust anyone, and I never will again.