shelf

there’s this white shelf in my room.

shelves serve to hold things up but

mine, it sits under my bed.

my mother insists on installing it

so I can litter it with pretty trophies and medals

always on display, always sitting pretty

always ready to impress

never being any less

than what the Ivy Leagues expect of me

nails hammer themselves into my bedroom walls

baby blue paint crumbling to make way for adult hues

shades of green dollar bills and creamy manila certificates

gold glinting off of gleaming victories

and proof of being worth it

but instead the gray dust of my failure

litters across the surface

like crumbs of something bigger

that were never touched upon, never reached,

but left behind as unwanted

leaving my shelf empty

empty, as if expecting more

until the hinges break loose with the trophies that weigh it down

the trophies that can stand up on their own

the trophies that are bright and hold meaning

the trophy unlike the girl whose gravity

is as insignificant as the last whisper daring to break

the empty shelf.