The Well, a poem.

The wells in her eyes are usually dry these days but that neverending heartache still remains.

It’s the girls in cute summer dresses that flow so beautifully in the sunshine filled air that make all the boys blush.

From the outside looking in, they seem so pure, so much more deserving. They are more flirtatious, more worthy, more incredible than she’ll ever be.

It’s never her.

It never has been and when the Cinderella reality strikes at midnight, it never will be.. this dream she’s had for longer than her first move.

It’s the ones without a cause who get the most love, that get the attention.

It’s the surface level, nice-bodied, mind-game playing gals that land the gents.

It’s a two-way street though, this I know.

Dating today isn’t really even a thing, it seems.

Instant gratification, constant affirmations from strangers, and a no-strings-attached policy are the rules of the game.

If you’re not willing to play, a left swipe is all it takes to forfeit your role.

It’s the healers and the lovers and the girls like her who are used up for a short time and left again.

Almost as if she’s a pit stop on someone else’s lonely day.

A girl left behind to scoop up the broken little pieces of her heart all to put on a shelf destined to get dusty in order to help someone else whose heart feels so overwhelmingly heavy on any given day.

The wells in her eyes often find tears but she won’t allow anyone to see them.

She’s resilient, she’s not as broken as she seems.

Or that’s what she tells herself anyway.

So why does her heart hurt so much that her stomach aches and why do the tears only fall down when the lights are off and the room goes quiet?

Why in such stark silence can she be free enough to hurt?

Because darling, she is no one’s everything and she knows it. The odds are against her in every single little way.

See, this loneliness she feels has always existed but is rarely acknowledged.

She’s too busy trying to prove her worth to boys interested in the pretty filtered girls rather than to herself.

It’s the ones who recieve all the attention that get it and it’s the ones who need to be loved that remain in the hollow wet walls of a well never filled.

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