you are holding a results sheet like it’s a mirror,
and hating the girl who looks back.
you’ve turned a list of strangers’ names
into a map of all the places you think you don’t belong,
measuring your worth with a hollow ruler
made of someone else’s ink.
you say, "i should die,"
as if your heartbeat were a clerical error.
as if a three-day harvest in a drafty room
could undo the miracle of the trees
you’ve kept alive through the frost.
you think that because you weren't "the best,"
you are a defect in the grove.
but i am watching you
try to trade your entire sky
for a trophy that doesn't even know your name.
you are so busy wanting to be "enough"
for people who don't know the scent of the citrus
on your skin, or the way your laughter
is the only thing keeping these walls
from leaning in.
the stranger who won
doesn't have your shadow on the sidewalk.
he doesn't know the frantic, quiet beauty
of tripping over your own grace.
he hasn't earned the right
to carry the scissors for you.
it is a strange, sharp grief
to see you try to erase yourself
over a Tuesday that felt too heavy.
your value isn't a score;
it is the salt in the kitchen,
the flour on the apron,
the habit of the seat to my right
that only sounds like you.
keep the scissors.
keep the bitter rind.
keep the mess you haven't finished making.
because i don't know how to live
in a house where the walls finally touch,
and i am not brave enough
to peel an orange
into an empty room.
so sit at the table with me.
peel an orange.
stay in the world.
give me the sour parts.
STAY.
(please...)
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 8:53 PM UTC
you are holding a results sheet like it’s a mirror,
and hating the girl who looks back.
you’ve turned a list of strangers’ names
into a map of all the places you think you don’t belong,
measuring your worth with a hollow ruler
made of someone else’s ink.
you say, "i should die,"
as if your heartbeat were a clerical error.
as if a three-day harvest in a drafty room
could undo the miracle of the trees
you’ve kept alive through the frost.
you think that because you weren't "the best,"
you are a defect in the grove.
but i am watching you
try to trade your entire sky
for a trophy that doesn't even know your name.
you are so busy wanting to be "enough"
for people who don't know the scent of the citrus
on your skin, or the way your laughter
is the only thing keeping these walls
from leaning in.
the stranger who won
doesn't have your shadow on the sidewalk.
he doesn't know the frantic, quiet beauty
of tripping over your own grace.
he hasn't earned the right
to carry the scissors for you.
it is a strange, sharp grief
to see you try to erase yourself
over a Tuesday that felt too heavy.
your value isn't a score;
it is the salt in the kitchen,
the flour on the apron,
the habit of the seat to my right
that only sounds like you.
keep the scissors.
keep the bitter rind.
keep the mess you haven't finished making.
because i don't know how to live
in a house where the walls finally touch,
and i am not brave enough
to peel an orange
into an empty room.
so sit at the table with me.
peel an orange.
stay in the world.
give me the sour parts.
STAY.
(please...)
