memoirs of an everyday nothing

Confession: i daydream about you daydreaming about me.
Confession: he's really not that special, you know.
Confession: i just gagged.

his arms line her shoulderblade,
leading her on, down the halls...
and fuck!
they fit so perfectly
together;
they're one-of-a-kind,
and me?
who am i, i ask?
who am i, when i'd rather be
waist-to-waist with anonymity?
who am i, when you replace
'suffrage' with 'suffer'?

wait,
don't answer that.
i know i'm just one
line in a song you'll never listen to
because i'm not the right genre---
there aren't enough innuendos
and my bassline fucking sucks;
i'm in the key of 'g minor'
and you prefer 'f major'

on second thought,
i'm not even a line--
i'm not even a word
or a chord or a beat

i'm a single brushstroke of a letter--
not just any letter, either:
the silent 'e' at the end of
some fake four letter word

Flaw: i'm not old enough to vote.
Flaw: you're too young to care.
Flaw: we're one-sided magnets.

and you, just an hour later,
are poking him for attention
that i would pay nickels for--

but no, fuck no.
instead, i'm biting the skin off my forefinger;
instead, i'm getting diagnosed with anxiety;
instead, i'm pretending you think about me;

Solution: twelve years of medicine.
Solution: six months of therapy.
Solution: an eternity without a heart.