I am friends with everyone, but no one is friends with me. 

I laugh with everyone, but no one laughs with me. 

I am exhausted. 

My relatives ask me: am I popular? 

I say I’m well-liked. Not liked well enough to be invited out– but liked enough to get by. 

In the cafeteria, I sit with those who will never sit with me. 

I talk to those who will never talk to me. 

Sometimes I think if I dropped off the map no one would notice. 

I am desperate. 

My parents ask me: where are your friends? 

They’re busy. They’re always busy and I am always free. 

They’re my friends, but they are not friends with me. 

I am alone. 

I ask myself: where am I safe?

Secluded in my room with only books for company. 

Only my racing thoughts and a phone that never rings. 

Alone with the scars you cut deep into me. Scars that you will never see 

because I can’t show you that I bleed 

Red like how you bleed Red.  

I am not enough. 

They ask me: why do you still try? 

I try because of hope. 

Foolish, naive hope. 

For the day I’m laughed with. The day I’m invited out. 

The day someone sits beside me. 

I am exhausted, desperate, alone, and lacking. 

But I am a dreamer. So I will continue to dream.