never good enough. there seem to be all kinds of good things, apparently lacking one of which I am unclear, and that one of course being the one that most certainly comes from a dismissal of the question of its very own nature, which resorts to nothing less than a sub-par verdict from each object of affection: not.good.enough.
jealousy rears its ugly green head with a finger pointed backward to its bashful brother: insecurity. of this there is no denial, but the verbalization of the presence of such an unmannered brother does nothing to undermine its well-anchored claws in the helm of each relationship, screaming at the top of its tarnished and weathered lungs: not.good.enough.
enough to merit its own jealousy, to claim the watchful eye of others, even to promote the ill-timed questions whose answers seem to change faster than the weather, yet never provoking a rational response of which I can cling fully and faithfully, with the knowledge that its words describe the patterns of my own heart, which now can only whisper to an ignorant passerby: not.good.enough.
when passions bring such trials as these, my gaze turns upward, though instead of with faithful glances and humble adoration, mouths only questions of why and when and for how long will this continue. despite my most persistent contributions to the love after which I seem and the basis for which these feelings are created, I find myself again toiled by what part of my own being lacks the fortitude for such an endeavor. apparently just: not.good.enough.
whether it is the merits of matrimony, the divisor of habits, the burden of biological time, or the comfortability of a favorite quilt, which unbeknownest to me is quite a frightening carousal, there seems no end to the rationale for such a negation of attempt, yet my heart holds tight to the quiet longing for someone who assure me that I am: just.good.enough.