Filler

I call myself a filler.
Someone who fills in the blank, a vacant seat, an empty cup, a starving stomach, a negative bank account, a boring show, an unfurnished shelf, the empty side of the bed, the void in somebody’s chest.
I can be your diary, your answer, your food, your winning lottery ticket, your clown, your trophy, your warm blanket, your rebound, your lover, even your hoe.
I am used to fill the needs of other people, to answer their calls for help, to provide what they lack, to be exactly who they want me to be. Whenever there is a hollow space in someone’s life, I occupy it. This is the only way I know how to matter in someone’s life — to be a filler.

But you are not like them. When I look at you, I can’t see anything to fill in. You are living a good life, you are happy, I don’t see emptiness in your eyes, you sleep well alone every night, you are confident with yourself, and you don’t seem to question life. Or did I miss something?
Do you need anyone to fill any part of your existence?
How can I fit in?
Where do I sit if all the seats were taken?
Where do I stand if there isn’t any place left for me?
How can I be someone useful to you? Valuable to you?
How can I be important? How can I mean something to you?
I want to matter to you, but how?