Nobody’s first choice.
Not anyone’s favorite person.
People may say I matter, but those are just words
and occasional forays.
There’s always someone else they’d pick first.
It’s a quiet kind of pain, knowing that no matter how much love I give,
I’m the one left waiting. Wanting. Hoping.
Waiting for the truth I already know
will finally be spoken,
pretending it doesn’t matter, while my silence
screams what my words cannot.
I’ve learned that it’s better not to try,
because trying means failing again.
It aches to know,
no one fears losing me.
If I vanished, it would be a while before anyone noticed.
Maybe a passing thought months later,
“I wonder what ever happened to her…”
Or maybe not even that.
I keep hoping someone might choose me first,
but after a lifetime of waiting, and trying, and aching,
I know better.
I’ve always been the vague backup plan,
the easy choice.
When I refuse to settle for that role,
love disappears entirely,
if it was ever truly there at all.
Was it ever really there?
Deep down, I know the answer.
Each morning, I wake because the alarm rings,
not because of hope or anticipation.
To hope feels dangerous now.
If I do nothing, I ache with loneliness;
if I reach out, I ache with rejection.
Either way, I bleed.
How can I have lived so long
and never been chosen?
Never asked out?
Never danced?
Never heard someone say,
“I just needed to hear your voice,”
and they were talking to me?
Who lives like this, knowing
they weren’t even second-best.
I’m kind.
Helpful. Compassionate. Strong,
resilient and resourceful.
I find joy in small places.
I live my convictions. I spend my life trying
to make a difference,
quietly, relentlessly,
and still, I am never what anyone wants.
I’m nobody’s first choice:
I’m not even anyone’s act of desperation.
I’m just the space people pass through
on their way to someone else.
by Jan Mariet 11/1/2025
