The last scoop of rice in a pot
the last one left alone to rot.
Is that how you see me?
I sincerely hope not.

Cold and unpredictable,
I don't feel natural
talking as I once did
until you sounded vehemal.
Awkwardness returned
and I fear it may be eternal:
unless you tell me otherwise
that this is just me overthinking
engulfing myself in feelings.

In your eyes
I'm not the prize
I thought I was.
Hear my cries
and bitter sighs
wishing you'd look
into my eyes.

"I love you,
I wish you feel the same..."
But it hurts
not to be able to say
these feelings I keep
my voice, low and meek:
something you can't hear
unless you were a mystique.