Some days I swear
I am the protagonist
of a story no one bothered to read.
I drag myself through the scenes,
hit my marks, say my lines,
and still the spotlight slides
just left of me—
as if even the light
is embarrassed to look directly.
I want to be seen.
God, I want to be seen.
Not in the way people glance
to confirm I’m still functioning,
still moving,
still “fine.”
I mean seen—
like someone tilts their head
and suddenly all my cracks
start to make sense.
Like my jagged edges
aren’t proof of failure
but evidence of survival.
But every role I play
feels rehearsed in someone else’s voice.
Every attempt at greatness
ends up lopsided,
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unfinished,
a little ugly around the edges—
like a painting done in the dark
with trembling hands
and no one waiting to see it.
I keep showing up,
even when the script goes blank,
even when the costume doesn’t fit,
even when the mirror says:
Not enough. Not this time. Try again.
And maybe that’s the quiet tragedy—
or the quiet power—
of being the main character
in a life that rarely looks cinematic.
I don’t get glamorous breakdowns.
I get the kind where you hold your breath
in the bathroom stall
and pretend it’s allergies.
I don’t get triumphant comebacks.
I get alarm clocks
and bills
and the slow crawl of trying again
even when everything in me
is begging to stay still.
But I show up.
Even unfinished.
Even ugly.
Even on the days I am a draft
of a person I’m still revising.
And maybe, one day,
someone will see me—
not the performance,
not the composure,
not the almost—but me.
And they’ll say:
There you are.
I’ve been looking for you.
Until then,
I keep walking my scenes,
keep holding my place,
keep living this imperfect life
like it’s worthy of witnesses—
because gods,
I want to be seen.
And maybe that wanting
is its own kind of bravery.
