I am a 10, maybe

Because I feel like a 10, it’s a make-up number.
A number that can change to one single digit.
That is stagnant for a while.
It can change to my lowness of my inner being,
as I grappled at life, to try and stand above the noise.
The noise that looks for company.
The noise that says you are not good enough.
I clasp my hands to pray, but my words don’t leave me.
My knees are tired of being in the same place.
They are tired of bending and taking up space.
It’s a rat race, hungry for that cheese.
If I say I am a 4 or 5 the world claps,
maybe a standing ovation.
They love me for that, with a pat
on my shoulder, “Well done,” they say.
As they fixed their eyes on me with questions.
“What next?”
The negativity follows me like black smoke,
because my fears and intimidation are burnt
and stamped in my soul.
If I choose to climb, they will try to pull me down.
Maybe stamp on my head or drag me to the ground.
They move their lips as it twitches, hungry for gossip.
Their eyes open wide as the sweet juice flows.
Lapping up everything that pours out
from the bellies of unwanted souls.
Anything below 5 they will raise their glass and cheer.
That’s the atmosphere, as the 10 just stand there and look on.
Waiting for me to reach it.