ancillary

the futility i feel represented in the emotions
of happy people that surround me
is overwhelmingly apparent

i keep returning to thoughts
of pity and distain
rank with sickly precaution
and reprehensible entitlement
like i know something they don't
and am better off for it

i have always marginally missed
that narrow window
and remained in varying degrees of place
below number one

a jack of all trades

i truly do have a consuming desire
to be the first for someone
i want to feel needed
necessary and intentional

except i know
i won't be satisfied enough
to relax
into someones assurance of adoration
after having waited this long
for something good to solidify
and become a constant for me

time has dulled the unbroken innocence of hope
into a dusty stick
of jaded narcissism
and pine sap jealousy

i sit outside
at the bottom of a pit 
that is deep enough to bury myself in
watching a centipede rustle in the dirt 
by my feet

the air is dead 
musty
and the feeling of constantly being awarded second place
infiltrates my nostrils
blooming with grass-blood
and burnt perfume