The people I am living for are not even aware that I am.
I sense sadness everytime they ask me to do something ( I feel is extra) for them, I tend to sulk and groan.
Isn’t how I am living enough? How much more of me do they want?
I can’t explain myself to them.
They don’t even know this is how I feel. I look in the mirror and don’t see Me.
Who am I? What happens when they leave? Who will I be.
Is this blame shifting? Am I removing my responsibility of proving and showing my true colours?
Is this some kind of insecurity magnifying itself and substituting me?
Subconscious just returned my pen, she was writing for me.
I’m not even upset. I see truth in this or is it a half truth from the other me?
I’ve mentioned “me” so often as if there is a distinction.
I hope I’m not too old to start defining she. I don’t want to confuse people.
I think it’s safe to say I have failed me.