Pick Me

I was raised to be picked, to do everything, and to do tricks. I was raised to be picked, to show that I was witty, pretty, and not so thick. I was raised to be picked, giving up my thoughts, beliefs, and wishes. I was raised to be a servant, giving up my desires, wants, and needs for theirs.

I was taught to be subservient, to be kind, to not hit back, to accept and to give in.

I was taught to be like Christ and turn the other cheek as they attacked my body.

I was taught to be the girl they wanted, like what they do, cook, clean, do laundry, and not complain.

I was taught to be a pick me; that my worth was only based on if I could become what they wanted me to be. 

I was picked, and my life turned into hell.

I was picked, and I was never good enough. 

I was picked, and I was unsatisfied in bed.

I was picked, and in the end, it didn’t even matter. 

I picked me, and I’m doing better.

I picked me, and I’m healthier, happier, and wiser.

I picked me, and I’m standing on my own two feet.

I picked me, and now I know I’ll always pick me over them.