There is a version of me
that clings to rooms,
where the lights are off—
a ghost of careful gestures,
quiet nods, lips bitten
to keep the words
from meaning something.

A body bent
under its own restraint.
This part of me—
the one who swallows
the sharp side of no,
who shrinks
when the world demands space,
when there is no room
to breathe—

She was only trying
to protect me,
but comfort is not enough.
I was just aiming to survive
instead of enjoying life,
as if quiet meant peace.

So, I wash her
off my skin—
slowly,
as if peeling a layer
too thin, too tender
could break her.

I tell her—
she didn’t do anything wrong,
but I do not ask her
to stay.

I leave her
in a place
where fear
is louder than love,
where smaller
felt like protection,
where I told myself
that less of me
was easier to bear.

I was wrong.

Now,
I make room
for the chaos
in my voice—
the uncontained portion
of myself,
soft and tender,
ugly and jagged,
a body taking up all the space
calling itself freedom.