brianna jean zeiger

please, remember me when i am gone .

As swift as the leaves fall off of a 50-year old maple tree during the ripeness of fall, is as quick as I leap to my feet when you ask for me. I give and I give, they take and they take and I am left with nothing but the bleak existence in the minds of those who I have helped- that I will do it over and over again. The sad truth is that they are right and will always use that knowledge to their advantage. 

 

No matter how much mental agony I am in, no matter how exhausted my mind and body feels, no matter the emotional turmoil I am in, I will keep giving as if I have the world to give, even though I am left with minuscule crumbs at my feet and told to make something extravagant out of it, for myself. 

 

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I jump over mountains for those who would not even step over a shallow puddle for me- unless it to their convenience of course. The only way one will help me is only so I can get back on my tired, aching feet and make their lives blissful once again. 

 

Although I would never fall too far into my own demise because I have too many of those dependent on me to stay afloat. I do not have the time to take a rest and embellish into my sorrow and stress. I have found that if I do- others will sink and I will take my exhausted, beaten down self into the current to rescue them, but hurt myself. I fight and I give until I am left with nothing, just to see those thrive while they make it safely back to the shore, and they will just watch me fight to keep my head above the aggressive waves of all that is “needed” of me. 

 

Constantly, the people I have helped, I am in their shadow- a shadow that I am the creator of. All of the praise they receive is because of the work that I did while ignoring my own. The mistakes they are able to hide are because I hid them in a lockbox and laid awake for nights just to find solutions to their issues while excusing my own. The pain they used to feel is now vacant because I have made it my own. 

 

These expectations of me that others withhold are dragging me down to the deepest depths of the oblivion those call Hell. I am ruining myself, all in the name of being a Saint. But, how can I possibly be a saint if I am one loose finger away from losing all that makes me good? How much more can people take from me until I am nothing but an empty void of what once was a happy human being? Why do I kill myself all in the name of being a good person, when I do not get recognized for my self-demising deeds to benefit others' lives? I am watching myself lose all that is left of my sanity, all that is left of my drive to be what I have always wanted to be. 

 

I am not longer a human, but an aged carpet damaged and stained by the mistakes of those who took advantage of its purpose. But although the stains still lie deep within the seams. They are not yet ready to throw me away, because they have not found a better one to fill the senseless purpose of being walked all over. 

 

Sympathy is not what I am in search of. I never have wanted it, I never will. But, I do feel sorry for myself at times. Looking back at all I have done to protect people, have just twisted another knife into my chest. I give my everything to those I love and cherish, even those I barely know. And for what? All I have gotten is a thoughtless “thank you”, a manner that is commonly learned during youth. I am not looking for a parade in honor of me, I’m not looking for a medal to wear around my neck so all those can adore me for what I have done. I am just looking for someone to tell me that I do not need to do this to feel valid in this world. I need someone to tell me that these unfathomable acts that I destroy myself for are not going to make me loved. 

 

This sense of remorse that is mutilating me with its grip is not about the countless amounts of money I have spent when it was my last few dollars to get me through the week, the tiresome nights I spent doing an assignment for someone else while neglecting the one that is my own, or making issues one is enduring my own so they do not need to feel them as badly while ignoring mine that is collapsing onto my chest making my vision blurry. I am nothing but a problem solver to them, that is the truth and the truth hurts, But what hurts more than that is that at the end of my existence, I just want to be remembered as someone who was kind and generous. But, it seems as if I will be missed for the things I did, rather than the person I was. I will be missed for the ease I gave people a sense of rather than the vibrancy of my laugh. In the end, after all of the rehearsed speeches are given, and I am laid to rest. I will slowly drift out of everyone’s conscious minds, they will move on within a few months, and forget about me but not about how easy their life was when I was around. That is the truth, and the truth hurts. But what hurts more is my value of giving rather than my value of being. 

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    wonderful example of how to utilise poetry
    as a productive tool in our everyday lives
    thanks for sharing, keep that mighty keyboard dancing
    self-expression as a coping methodology
    is an awesome skill
    versatile in its potentially endless utility



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