normal tusk
The world is full of possibilities.
That’s what everyone says like it’s comforting.
I’m sitting in a quiet corner and I can feel myself shrinking.
Her hand is on him.
She’s laughing.
He’s laughing.
It shouldn’t mean anything.
I know that.
I know that.
But it feels like something closing inside my chest.
If I say I’m jealous, I become unreasonable.
Possessive.
Insecure.
So instead I say nothing
and let the feeling turn into a question.
Why can’t he just be mine?
That sounds ugly.
I don’t like that it sounds ugly.
Of course he can have women in his life.
Of course he can have friends.
So why does it feel like abandonment anyway?
My brain starts listing possibilities.
Maybe she’s prettier.
Maybe she’s smarter.
Maybe she’s easier.
Maybe one day he will realize
I am none of those things.
What do I have to offer?
I am a writer
who doesn’t think she’s good at writing.
An average student.
A logical person who explains everything away
except this.
People say I have a good character.
I don’t know how far that goes.
Can you be good and still be wanted?
Can you be balanced and still be chosen?
Balance is everything to me.
I measure.
I consider.
I decide carefully.
But insecurity doesn’t measure.
It decides instantly:
You are not enough.
And I can’t logic my way out of that.
jolly chasm