Maybe it’s easier to embrace emptiness,  
to let loneliness hold me,  
than to keep asking why I’m never enough.  
Not too much, not too little—  
I just want to exist,  
wholly and unapologetically as myself.  
But even that feels like too much to ask.  

I don’t want to speak of broken hearts,  
of dreams abandoned in the dark.  
I don’t want to bend beneath the weight  
of your expectations,  
constantly reshaping,  
becoming something I’m not.  

The fear of being hurt again  
gnaws at me like a relentless tide,  
wearing me down,  
until I’m hollow,  
a ghost of who I used to be.  
I drown myself in another drink,  
hoping to blur the ache,  
but all I see is the fractured reflection  
of a person I barely recognize.  

I don’t want to be a placeholder,  
something you keep close  
until you find what you’re really looking for.  
I don’t want to linger in the shadows,  
waiting for love that never comes.  
I don’t want to be forgotten,  
reduced to a fleeting memory,  
like I was never more than a passing thought.  

I don’t want to carry the impossible weight  
of perfection,  
to mold myself into an image  
that feels like a stranger.  
I don’t want a love built on uncertainty,  
a fragile dance where every step  
feels like falling through glass.  

I don’t want to compete  
with the ghosts of your past—  
the faces you admire,  
the laughter you share with others,  
the moments you give so freely  
to everyone but me.  
I don’t want to stand in the background,  
always reaching,  
always falling short.  

I don’t want to be your experiment,  
a fleeting curiosity.  
I don’t want to shrink myself  
to fit the narrow spaces  
where you’re comfortable.  
I don’t want to hold back  
out of fear that being real  
will be too much for you to bear.  

I don’t want to sit across from you,  
watching your gaze drift,  
your thoughts wander to places  
I can’t follow.  
I don’t want to beg for your attention,  
your touch,  
your care,  
when it’s your absence that wounds me most.  

I don’t want to believe  
that my love is a burden.  
I don’t want to see myself  
through the filter of your indifference.  
I don’t want to keep breaking,  
changing,  
rebuilding myself  
to fit a shape  
that was never meant for me.  

I want to be more than a convenience,  
more than an afterthought.  
I want to stop living in fear—  
fear that one day you’ll leave  
without a word,  
without a glance back.  

I want to be seen,  
not just for the pieces I show,  
but for the storms and softness  
I keep hidden.  
I want you to see my chaos,  
my flaws,  
my scars,  
and still stay.  

I want to be loved  
not for what I give,  
but for who I am—  
messy, imperfect, real.  
I want a love  
that doesn’t make me question  
my worth.  
A love that doesn’t leave me  
feeling like I have to disappear  
just to make space.  

I want to stop aching for a love  
that asks me to be less,  
and start believing  
I’ve always been enough.  

I want to find in your eyes  
what I’ve lost in myself—  
the good,  
the worthy,  
the light I can’t always see.  

I want to feel held  
not because I’m flawless,  
but because I’m whole.  
I want a love  
that heals the broken pieces,  
that mends without asking me  
to tear myself apart.  
I want to stop fighting for space  
in a world that made me feel small,  
and finally know  
I am worthy,  
just as I am.

I am done bowing to the weight of their words,  
done letting voices carve me into shapes  
that never felt like home.  
Their shadows stretch long,  
but I will no longer live beneath them.  

I am not here to be quiet.  
I am not here to blend into the crowd,  
to walk paths smoothed by a thousand faceless feet.  
I am here to blaze,  
to stand where the world told me to kneel,  
to burn brighter than they dared to dream.  

The storms will come.  
They always do.  
I will stand in the rain until it baptizes me,  
let the winds shred my soul to its bones,  
and still, I will rise.  

The road will bleed me,  
etching its truth into my skin.  
But my wounds will bloom into gold,  
and I will rise, forged in their fire.  

It is not too late.  
Not too late to sift through my ashes,  
to find her—  
the me I buried beneath their voices,  
the one who never stopped waiting  
for this moment to be free.  

I will fall.  
I will break.  
I will rise.  
I will rise,  
until the ground beneath me quakes with my name,  
until I am fire,  
until I am free.  

I will not just exist.  
I will carve my name into the wind.  
I will live.  
I will *become.

I return to the keys,  
pouring my grief into the cracks of these words,  
as if they could hold the weight of the emptiness you left.  
But grief is relentless.  
It doesn’t ebb, doesn’t quiet—  
it rises, crashes,  
and drags me under,  
again and again.  

I fall into your arms—  
or maybe just the memory of them.  
It’s only a teddy bear now,  
soft where you were steady,  
still here where you are not.  
I hold it close,  
because it’s all that’s left of you—  
you, who once made the world feel safe.  

I wish I could fall in love again,  
with the way life moves,  
with the reflection in my mirror.  
But tell me,  
have you seen my laughter from where you are?  
Can you hear it echo through the years?  
Or does it hang like a ghost,  
faint and forgotten,  
lost in the space where you used to be?  
Mama, the days are heavy now.  
Not like before,  
when life fit so easily in my hands.  

I wrap my arms around myself,  
pretending they are yours,  
but the hollow you left stretches wider.  
Sometimes I shut my eyes,  
and in the darkness, you come back—  
your laughter,  
soft as sunlight,  
dancing across my skin,  
kissing the freckles you loved so much.  
We’re on the grass again,  
your hand brushing mine.  
But it’s not real, is it?  
It’s just the wind,  
and my tears fall harder,  
burning trails into my skin,  
carving rivers into my soul.  
They scar me, Mama.  
They etch your absence into every corner of my life.  

A butterfly rests on the windowsill,  
its wings stirring a quiet ache in me,  
a reminder of the tattoo I got for you—  
the one you never would have liked.  
But still, I whispered your name as the needle cut,  
as if it could bring you closer.  
Are you still here, Mama?  
Somewhere I cannot see?  
If you are,  
stand with me, just for a moment.  
Let me feel your love again—  
let me be your little girl once more.  
Let me scrape my knees and run to you,  
knowing you’ll always pick me up.  
Your hands so soft,  
your pockets ready  
with a pink Band-Aid for all the broken pieces of the world.  

Let’s paint again,  
just once more—  
a parrot, bold and bright,  
the freedom you never had.  
Embarrass me one last time,  
the way you always did.  
I promise I won’t roll my eyes.  
I’ll laugh with you this time,  
I’ll savor the sound of your voice,  
the one I took for granted  
until it was gone.  

What I wouldn’t give for one of those sixth-day meals,  
when there was nothing left  
but your smile at the table,  
making scraps feel like a feast.  
Now I sit here,  
pretending you’re leaning over my shoulder,  
your voice soft in my ear:  
“Write, my little one.”  
You always said that.  
In the kitchen, your blonde hair pinned up,  
your heart heavy with a love  
you didn’t want to carry—  
but carried anyway,  
for me.  

What a beautiful, broken lie life was, wasn’t it, Mama?  
You took your secrets with you,  
but I stayed to watch the truth:  
you left because I let you go.  
I gave you permission,  
even as it shattered me,  
even as my tears begged you to stay.  

Just once more, Mama.  
Let me be your little girl again.  
Let me hear your laugh,  
feel your arms,  
listen to your endless, annoying advice.  
Let me feel your love  
filling the empty spaces inside me.  

Just once.  
Just once more.  
And maybe then—  
maybe—I could learn to let go.

Step into the silence of your thoughts.  
Feel their weight, their pull, their truth.  
Ask yourself the questions  
you’ve been too afraid to face:  
Who am I beneath the layers they gave me?  
Who would I be if their voices fell away?  

Your thoughts are the compass of your world.  
But if others hold the map,  
where will you go?  
They plant beliefs in you,  
wrap them in certainty,  
and you take them,  
never asking if they fit the shape of your soul.  

Stop.  
Breathe.  
Feel the burden of what you carry.  
Do these thoughts belong to you,  
or were they pressed into your hands?  
Do they lift you,  
or do they hold you still?  
Do you even know where they end,  
and you begin?  

The world will try to own you.  
It will whisper in your ear,  
shape you into something softer, smaller—  
something easier to control.  
But you are not theirs to tame.  
You are the tide,  
rising and crashing,  
breaking every shore  
that dared to hold you back.  

Let your thoughts rebel.  
Tear down the walls  
built by hands that never loved you.  
Not every belief belongs to you.  
Not every truth deserves your trust.  
Ask yourself:  
What thought sets you free?  
What thought chains you down?  

When the weight feels unbearable,  
when the voices in your mind press too hard,  
pause and ask:  
Is this truly mine?  
Does this thought serve my soul,  
or does it bind it?  
You are the keeper of your mind.  
You decide what stays,  
what goes,  
what grows.  

You are not a mirror for their truths.  
You are not their echo.  
You are a creator.  
Break every pattern they placed in you.  
Reclaim the space to dream,  
to rise,  
to rewrite.  

With every thought you choose,  
you build the world you will live in.  
So think fiercely.  
Question boldly.  
And carve a life so wholly yours  
that no one will ever take it away again.

“I don’t want to die,  
but I wouldn’t mind disappearing.”  
It’s not the end I long for,  
but the silence of something breaking—  
the stillness after the storm.  
There’s a shadow wrapped around my ribs,  
a weight that murmurs  
there’s no escape but unraveling.  

It’s not life I wish to leave behind,  
but the parts of me that feel too heavy to carry.  
The doubts that root me to the ground,  
the thoughts that keep replaying,  
until I forget who I was  
before the noise began.  

Sometimes, we crave a small death—  
not of the body,  
but of the self we’ve outgrown.  
The pieces of us that hold too tight,  
that shrink us to fit a life  
we no longer belong to.  

But maybe it’s not death I need.  
Maybe it’s a breaking open.  
A shedding of the old,  
a step beyond the walls I’ve built.  
Past the fear, past the doubt—  
to a place where life breathes lighter,  
where I can feel the weight of the sun  
instead of the weight of myself.  

Still, before I can begin again,  
I must stand still.  
I must face the quiet ache  
of what I’ve buried inside me.  
The pain, the questions, the glimmers of hope—  
they are mine to hold,  
and only by holding them  
can I begin to let them go.  

So I ask myself:  
Who do I want to be?  
And who would you be,  
if you let yourself begin again?  
What thoughts, what choices,  
could carry us closer to the lives we crave?  

I am learning to trust myself,  
to feel joy in the smallest cracks of light—  
the warmth of the sun breaking through clouds,  
the sound of laughter I almost forgot was mine.  
I hold onto gratitude,  
even when it feels fragile,  
and slowly, the darkness softens its grip.  

I step outside,  
leaving the noise behind,  
and feel the world exhale.  
I meet myself here—  
the fears I’ve avoided,  
the voice I’ve silenced.  
And maybe,  
just maybe,  
I don’t want to disappear anymore.  

I want to live.  
Not survive.  
Live.  
To let the waves crash over me,  
to rise again,  
and find that I have always been enough.

“I’m not enough,” I whisper to myself,  
as if the words could define me.  
My stomach is too soft,  
my nose too bold,  
my lips too thin to carry beauty,  
my arms too weak to hold worth.  

Every day, I face the mirror like an enemy,  
its surface heavy with unspoken rules:  
Be smaller. Be smoother. Be better.  
And I try.  
I try to mold myself into a vision  
that was never mine to begin with.  
But no matter how I bend,  
how I break,  
it’s never enough.  

What is "enough"?  
A mirage, a lie—  
a fleeting standard meant to keep us chasing.  
Who told you to measure yourself  
against something that doesn’t exist?  
Who taught you that beauty  
was a battle you had to win?  

Listen to me.  
Your body is not their canvas.  
It is not their project to critique.  
It is your home—  
built strong enough to carry your pain,  
your joy, your quiet triumphs.  

Your hands have held onto fragile threads of hope,  
even as the darkness tried to swallow them whole.  
Your legs have walked forward,  
even when the weight of the world  
threatened to pull you down.  
Your shoulders have borne burdens  
no one else could see.  
And your skin—  
it has felt the sting of life,  
but still, it keeps you here.  

You are not a reflection in the glass.  
You are the warmth of a laugh  
shared with someone who loves you.  
You are the strength it takes to rise again  
after breaking.  
You are the quiet, steady courage  
of a heart that refuses to stop beating.  

Forget the mirrors.  
Smash them if you must.  
Forget the rules they wrote for you.  
They were never yours to follow.  

Your scars are the proof of your survival.  
Your softness is the echo of love that stayed.  
Your imperfections are where the light gets in.  
You were never meant to be flawless—  
you were meant to be real.  

You are not here to shrink.  
You are here to take up space,  
to breathe deeply,  
to let the sun warm your face  
and the earth hold your feet steady.  
You are here to laugh too loudly,  
to cry when you need to,  
to live without apology.  

Your worth was never in how you look.  
It was never in the size of your waist  
or the curve of your smile.  
It lives in the way you dream.  
The way you love.  
The way you rise again and again,  
even when it feels impossible.  

So stand before the mirror,  
not as a critic,  
but as a witness.  
See the life that pulses through you,  
the resilience in your eyes,  
the strength in your bones.  

You.  
You, with the doubts clawing at your chest.  
You are not broken.  
You are not too much,  
not too little.  
You are not incomplete.  

You are whole.  
You always have been.

Maybe I’ve learned to accept myself,  
to find peace in who I am.  
Maybe I see the meaning in my life,  
here in the world I’ve built—  
quiet, steady,  
safe behind these walls I know too well.  

Or maybe I haven’t.  
Maybe I can’t.  
Not in a world that whispers rules into my ear—  
how to be,  
how to feel,  
how to shrink myself  
into their fragile mold.  
A world that tells me  
I am never enough,  
never complete,  
never whole.  

Maybe I dream of freedom—  
of skies that stretch like open arms,  
of oceans murmuring my name,  
promising a world untouched by fear.  
But out there,  
even the streets are battles.  
At night, I’m too afraid to walk alone,  
because I know the eyes are waiting—  
to measure,  
to judge,  
to shrink me into something less than I am.  

Maybe I’ve started to like myself now,  
more than I ever did before.  
Maybe it’s because I’ve stopped trying to fit  
into their broken world,  
a world that demands more and more  
until I forget who I am.  

But maybe I’ve lost something, too.  
Maybe the love I had for myself  
was stolen by a world  
that feeds on envy,  
a machine built to divide us,  
to make us compete,  
until we tear each other apart.  
While above us,  
those who built it  
watch without consequence.  

Maybe I am enough—  
not as they define me,  
not as they demand,  
but as I am.  
Maybe it’s time to smash the reflection  
they forced me to see,  
to shatter the image  
and recognize this truth:  
this system was never made for us.  
It was never built to lift us,  
to heal us,  
to make us whole.  
It was built to keep us small.  

What if we stopped feeding their lies?  
What if we let the chains fall,  
reached for each other,  
and refused to play their game?  
Because we were never meant  
to live in a world  
that tells us every day  
we are not enough.  

We were meant to rise,  
to find beauty in the scars they taught us to hide,  
to build a life that is ours,  
not theirs.  

And maybe—just maybe—  
we’ve been enough all along.  
Not because they told us so,  
but because we dared to believe it.