I’m getting used to being ignored.
I’m getting used to not asking
for more.
I’m getting used to being
an afterthought.
I’m getting used to
not mattering,
I’m getting used to it,
the numbing sense of distrust,
the numbing pain of unimportance,
the feeling of being a forgotten
ornament on a shelf you’ve stopped seeing
as you walk through your house.
I’ve gotten used to being
taken for granted,
and unnoticeable
if moved,
or if broken, or
even if stolen from right beneath your nose.
I am a vase covered with dust
next to some knickknacks,
a souvenir, perhaps,
from a nice vacation from a long,
long, forgotten