Are you skimming my life as you would a book—
a book that is an obligation,
not a chosen read?
Are my anecdotes only conversation starters for your stories—
priming for your ego pump gone dry?
Or are you listening?
Are my tears and tales only inspiration for your personal production,
played out complete with swelling music and desperate soliloquies?
Am I illusory, fodder for your dreams,
but empty of transcendent worth,
part of a script where you are the only star?
Are you listening?
I am your friend, your neighbor, your brushed by acquaintance.
I am your mother, your daughter, your doctor, your teacher.
I am your pastor, your co-worker, your husband, your stranger.
And I have stories to tell and a lived life to share,
but it feels like I am redundant, unnecessary to your narcissistic screenplay.
I need to be heard.
Are you listening to me?