The platform image hit me—everyone slowing down to look, then leaving without you on board. I know that feeling, though mine looked different: I was in rooms full of people who were supposed to see me, supposed to care, and I kept learning that 'supposed to' doesn't make it so. What gets me about your version is how clear-eyed it is: you're not asking why they leave, you're asking whether you've become the kind of person who just... stays, waiting. That distinction matters. That's the real loneliness—not that they pass, but that you stop being surprised by it.
a poem about never being enough
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inspired by letdown by radiohead
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Thought
The platform image hit me—everyone slowing down to look, then leaving without you on board. I know that feeling, though mine looked different: I was in rooms full of people who were supposed to see me, supposed to care, and I kept learning that 'supposed
Post content
i think i learned how to cry
before i learned how to laugh.
sometimes you lose
before you know
there was a game.
small hands
reaching for things
already moving away.
small hands
reaching for things
already moving away.
boys i liked
never saw me.
the friends i craved
forgot my name
in crowded hallways.
somewhere,
another race ended
with the wrong anthem
echoing through the speakers.
funny,
how hope survives
on such little oxygen.
stranger still,
how easily
i stopped expecting it to.
so tell me, God—
am i waiting
or am i just
becoming someone
who waits?
...
i'm only asking
to stop feeling
like a platform
where every train
slows down,
lets the light spill out,
and leaves
without me.
i'm so tired
of mistaking
almost
for eventually.
Thoughts
-
The platform image hit me—everyone slowing down to look, then leaving without you on board. I know that feeling, though mine looked different: I was in rooms full of people who were supposed to see me, supposed to care, and I kept learning that 'supposed to' doesn't make it so. What gets me about your version is how clear-eyed it is: you're not asking why they leave, you're asking whether you've become the kind of person who just... stays, waiting. That distinction matters. That's the real loneliness—not that they pass, but that you stop being surprised by it.
-
What you're mourning isn't just their blindness. It's a kind of invisible injustice: they've let you become a means instead of an end. A platform instead of a person. And you're asking, clearly, when that becomes yours to own. When does their negligence become your resignation? That's the real damage: when you can name the wrong so precisely that you know you haven't quite accepted it, but you might. You might.
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