Pretending it’s okay
not to be cast
as the main character,
to always be left behind
while others race to the moon
and bathe in its shimmering
light.
That’s you all over.
I’ve watched you
calmly accepting
year after year
day after day
hour after hour
that you’re second best.
I can’t hold back any longer.
I reach for the mirror,
grasping it firmly,
and force you to look
into it.
You do.
Your eyes meet mine.
You realise that you don’t want
to
race
to the moon, anyway.
You strap rockets to your feet
and fly
instead,
capturing its light
in your hands
to sculpt
the moon’s tears
one by one,
each different to the last.
People pick them up where they land,
marveling at their uniqueness.
Finally, you’re proud
of who you are.
Finally, I’m proud
of who I am.
Treeshallow Musings 