Who am I kidding

Who am I kidding?

I like to think that I’m confident

That I’m smart

That I’m pretty

(not beautiful, just pretty)

But that is not the case, is it?

Or if it is, there is something else wrong with me that trumps all those

Something subtle, but there nevertheless

Like a stain on a white tablecloth

Lightened by repeated washing and hardly noticeable

Yet it’s there, and it’s an undeniable eyesore that only grows more onerous with time

What’s wrong with me?

I want so much to be loved

To be cared for

To be treasured

But the only one who treasures me is me

And sometimes,

That just isn’t enough.

Am I just a fool?

Those who come, I push away

But those who dare not approach

They are the ones I seek

Fickleness and folly such as this

Gets just what it asks for in the end

So how do I stop asking?