by Daniel James
There is nothing quite as satisfying
As witnessing the end of a clique
A loud, ever-present band of satisfied individuals
Each one performing to fill the empty spaces.
Like a puzzle.
I was a foreign piece,
trying to push my way into an empty space
They were queer.
My edges were jagged.
Rejection was never more clear.
All 73 pieces refused me.
I watched from the sidelines
Bent edges from my attempts at acceptance
They don’t even know my name.
Grateful I never had to carry the weight.
Rejection is much lighter.
I’m not sure who I am without my empty spaces
the significance of my existence is not your validation.
I don’t need to numb pain
I feel everything.
But the clique is falling apart now.
They’re once again individuals
their faces are diminished
searching for acceptance
with those they once rejected.
The Ink. Is dry.