Loser

She’s not an outcast, no, she’s quite refined,
Polite and poised, a little too confined.
She tells a joke and laughter fills the air,
She smiles, extends her help with quiet care.

But only half of her she’ll ever show,
Half her light, half the love she lets grow.
The other half is broken, bruised, and worn,
Branded “loser” since the day she was born.

Left unspoken, tucked upon a shelf,
A secret shadow of her hidden self.
They might not say it, yet she knows it true;
A weight she’s carried since she was new.