Why am I always the one less desired?

The bile in my throat tastes of shame and I wonder why I’ve never been enough.

If I were enough for someone, surely I wouldn’t have been chosen last.

I’m lacking.

My missing pieces leave gaping jagged holes whose endless darkness swallows anything that comes near.

An unknowing passerby stumbles by and I think to myself, “maybe, just maybe, I’ve found one of those missing pieces.”

Until again the edges don’t match up and they stumble forward, leaving me behind again.

I cannot bring myself to blame those that stumble on without me.

I cannot fault them for claiming the luxury of choice before I’d ever even met her.

I must be better to be chosen.

If I cannot be better, I must be someone else.