I am not a bottle of shampoo.
Yet I keep watering myself down,
diluting everything that once made me
rich, whole, enough.

I stretch myself thin,
like plastic pulled too far,
translucent, fragile.
I work too much,
as if sacrificing my life could patch the leaks.

I am afraid to take up space.
Afraid that presence is too loud,
that my fullness might offend.
So I pour myself out in teaspoons,
measured, polite, disappearing.

If I keep watering myself down,
there will be nothing left
of the original product,
just a bottle,
and a label full of water.

Branded, but empty.