In the mirror I paint ivory foundation on my face,

trying to cover the silver trophy nature of my skin.

• They see right through me, they know I’m a fake, a fraud, a phony.

 

Never picked first, but never picked last.

Standing on the second step of the podium should make me proud,

but instead, I feel jealous looking up to someone I love.

• Being in the middle brings safety, but also comparison, competition, cowardice.

 

I hear the murmurs of the crowd,

calling me “ungrateful whore,” “bitch,” and “cunt,”

nothing I haven’t heard before.

• It’s hard to feel grateful when you’re always overlooked, overshadowed, overwhelmed.

 

Seeing red, but not angry.

I choke down sobs stuck behind a scarlet noose

as I wipe away stinging tears with this cheap polyester ribbon.

• No matter how hard I try, I always feel untalented, undeserving, unappreciated.

 

I wish I was still in elementary school,

when participation was the only thing that mattered.

• Now I’m in the real world feeling anxious, abysmal, apathetic.