Slices They Never Pick

There’s a split.

One version —
the one
All fun.
A little unbothered.
A total biatch when needed.
Effortlessly put together,
with the right amount of mess to seem relatable.

Then there’s the other —
the one that sits quietly
tearing everything apart from the inside.
Not out of choice.
Just inevitability.
There’s always an unless.

But maybe it’s not a split at all.
Maybe they’re just slices of the same cake.
Same ingredients.
Same batter.
Same burn in the oven.
Just served differently.
Or not served at all.

Because here’s the thing no one says out loud:

No one sees the one in the dark.
No one wants her.
Not really.

She’s the one whose breath chokes in broad daylight.
The one who smiles through static.
Who walks through rooms full of people and still feels unseen.
Who knows what malice tastes like,
and keeps chewing — not because she’s strong —
but because she never learned how to spit it out.

That version?
That slice?
It doesn’t sell.
It doesn’t serve.
It doesn’t sit well on the plate.

They don’t ask about her.
They don’t wait for her.
They don’t even know she exists.

People want the digestible version.
The high-functioning pain.
The curated vulnerability.
They want sadness with punchlines.
Anguish that fits in an aesthetic frame.

As long as you’re happy and gay,
they’ll have you.
As long as you perform the right kind of hurting,
they’ll stay.

The rest?
Too much.
Too real.
Too raw.

Too inconvenient.

And yet…

Here’s to the slice no one picks.
The one left behind.
The one that still exists — even in the dark.

And maybe, just maybe,
we start saving her a seat at our own damn table.