Winner and Loser

I’m not a winner and not a loser, you’re awarded both titles somehow.

All sympathy and tears sit on your throne with glory and renown.

They pity you for your wounds, they love you for making them proud,

But I’m on the sideline still bleeding, no one comes to untangle my shroud.

.

What a strange coincidence, finding us both in last place,

Until you left me in pieces as you fled to finish the cruel race.

What thunderous applause, what beaming smiles in your name!

They do not hear the screaming of the hero they rushed to replace.

.

I was the one they once cheered. I worked for the love they bestowed.

I still work like hands on a clock, running and running, in circles I go

doing the most yet not traveling. Wait, they look at me once more!

But they’re only using me, measuring time against the one they now adore.

.

Still, I am not the loser, or I’d get a tearful embrace.

They would weep over my loss like I, the two of hearts, took on an Ace.

Somehow, you get the concern. Nurses rush to your side

To heal your little bruise while my gushing injury, I hide.

.

Betrayal begs for my blood. I rip the knife from my flesh.

Once we ran this race together. I’m not the loser, I’m the left.

Forgotten, my effort and excellence. Forgotten, the pain I endure.

I can neither win nor lose, because I don’t exist anymore.

.

Still, I’m proud of you for growing. I’ll water your never-quenched leaves.

I’ll direct the sunlight your way. I’ll make sure your needs are seen.

But couldn’t you give me a drop of that water which streams your way?

I’m still here, under the dirt. I’m still here, starting to decay.

.

I’m still here, sewing up scars. I’m still here, winning my race.

It’s not the one I had planned, but it’s the right one for me to face.

I will keep time as you beat every record. I will cheer watching you grow.

I’ll stitch up the wound that you gave, because winner and loser can’t sew.

.

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A note about the piece:

This poem tackles the inner monologues of misplacement in our own relationships as we feel we not only can't win, but can't even seem to lose properly, caught in the in between of utter insignificance. As the poem expresses, you may have learned to stitch your own wounds, giving yourself healing when you fall short and providing your own accolades when you achieve. This skill is something only someone who’s experienced the limbo state between winning and losing can master. “Winners” receive praise and “losers” receive pity, meaning they often don’t know how to provide their own validation or nurse their own wounds. For this reason, I challenge you to consider the occasional feeling of neglect a blessing because it’s taught you to be your own knight in shining armour. This does not mean your feelings of insignificance hold any truth. You are remarkably loved, and there will always be people there to lift you on their shoulders whether it’s to parade you around on a victory lap or carry you home to nurse your wounds. But, remember that even when you’ve felt alone, you’ve always gotten yourself through. When it comes down to it: you, yourself, are enough.