Rooting

It must really be just so exhausting rooting for the anti-hero.

What’s it like to root for me, when I always let you down?

I am kind; I tell my friends that they’re beautiful, that they’re smart, that I’m proud of them, I say my “please”s and my “thank you”s, I compliment strangers and I hold the door open.

I am compassionate; I offer my friends an ear to talk to, a shoulder to lean on, a person to cry to, I shower my family with gratitude every chance that I get.

I am conscientious; I pick up trash off the street and always after myself, I load the dishwasher at home without being asked, and here, I always put them away.

I am funny, it’s what my friends say; I try to be, I get them to laugh.

But nonetheless, I disappoint.

I never reach out first, and if you do then it will take me a day or two to respond, if we're lucky.

I dodge plans and play stupid like I don’t know what you want from me.

When I make plans, I rarely flake, but I do try and cut them short, as short as I can handle.

I don’t want people in my room, I don’t like people in my heart.

Tell me all of your fears, I will never tell you mine.

You don’t know what I want, but then again, I never will.

I don’t give people a fair try; I run away like a thief in the night.

Taking your name, your stories, our moments, our memories, the secrets that you’ve confided in me, the tears that you’ve cried to me, far, far away.

I always seem so far, but, somehow, I’m close enough to touch. And you do; you poke me and you shake me, but I don’t move.

When I finally sway, it's to let a leaf fall, and another, and suddenly they’re all brown and I have nothing more to give.

I’ve disappointed you, again.

So, you sigh, you walk away, and you say to yourself,

“Whatever happened to that tree? It used to be so pretty.”