You tell me I talk too much,
then ask why I’m so quiet.
You tell me I’m pretty,
then ask why I’m not wearing makeup.
You tell me you love me,
but you’re looking at her.
You say you like me as I am,
then list all the ways I could be better.
You laugh when I speak my mind,
then wonder why I bite my tongue.
You hold my hand in public,
but let it go when she walks by.
You call me yours,
but treat me like I’m temporary.
And somewhere between your words
and what you really mean,
I start to disappear—
shrinking into versions of myself
you might finally choose,
until I don’t recognize
who you asked me to be.
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 8:12 AM UTC
You tell me I talk too much,
then ask why I’m so quiet.
You tell me I’m pretty,
then ask why I’m not wearing makeup.
You tell me you love me,
but you’re looking at her.
You say you like me as I am,
then list all the ways I could be better.
You laugh when I speak my mind,
then wonder why I bite my tongue.
You hold my hand in public,
but let it go when she walks by.
You call me yours,
but treat me like I’m temporary.
And somewhere between your words
and what you really mean,
I start to disappear—
shrinking into versions of myself
you might finally choose,
until I don’t recognize
who you asked me to be.
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