Glitter,glitter,fake gold.

 

so here’s why

i wrote in a book

and called it a diary

even when i had friends

who said i could tell them

anything.

their secrets

and mine were

different,

their shame was

studded with glitter

and giggles,

my shame was none of that.

the change that

jingled in my pockets

were for three bus rides home,

sometimes my jingles

would merge with the jingles

of all their lost cell phones.

why don’t you want to

hang out,

chill,

have fun,

join us?

i

i don’t

can’t.

i wrote that they had everything

i hate that i wanted their everything

being like them would have been possible then.

i wrote that i was

the break in the link

the bend in the imitation gold

the rusty bit,

the inconsistency in the ring.

my reality was not theirs

their hardships, i failed to see

what fun we had as friends

what frivolity we passed around

my touch lingering

i guess i stayed to feel like them

i left when i went back to read my

own words

in my own diary

of my own life,

echoing my own reality.

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