I learned early
how to fold myself smaller—
like a letter never sent,
creased along the lines
where someone else decided
I took up too much space.
I polished my edges
until they blurred,
smiled until my cheeks forgot
what resting felt like,
became softer, quieter, easier—
a version of me
that wouldn’t make anyone leave.
Still, something was always missing.
I tried harder.
God, I tried harder.
Stacked achievements like bricks
to build a house
someone might finally stay in,
but every door I opened
led to the same empty room
echoing back,
not quite, not yet, not you.
There’s a kind of exhaustion
that sleep doesn’t touch—
the kind that lives
in the space between who you are
and who you keep trying to become.
I memorized the language of “almost.”
Almost pretty enough.
Almost kind enough.
Almost worth choosing
without hesitation.
And every “almost”
felt like a quiet rejection
I had to pretend not to hear.
Sometimes I wonder
what it would feel like
to arrive somewhere
and not feel like a placeholder,
not feel like something temporary
waiting to be replaced
by someone better, brighter, easier to love.
But I keep trying anyway.
Because maybe if I change one more thing,
fix one more flaw,
rewrite one more piece of myself—
someone will finally look at me
without searching for an exit.
And maybe
I’ll look at myself
and not feel like
something unfinished.
