A question that’s been cutting through me lately—
“What changed you?”

What changed me?
I’ve walked through hell
just to keep breathing
for people who never once
looked back to see if I made it.

I gave everything
to feel like something,
only to realize
I mean nothing.

And still—
they ask me why I’ve changed.

What changed me
was being let down
by every soul I trusted.
Being the extra body in the room,
never the reason someone stayed.

Invisible.
Unheard.
Unwanted.

My words float in silence.
My actions vanish in plain sight.
And yet, they ask—
“What changed you?”

The nights did.
The ones I spent choking on tears
with no one to come home to.
No arms. No voice.
No one wondering if I made it through.

What changed me
was learning that pain doesn’t echo
when no one cares to hear it.

That numbness comes
when you scream silently
for so long,
you forget
what sound feels like.

They ask me—
“When did you change?”

I changed the day
hope became something others
took from me—
like I didn’t deserve it.
I changed
when people rested peacefully
while I wept
over promises that never meant to stay.

Or maybe—
maybe I changed
when I realized
my leaving
wouldn’t shake anyone’s world
but mine.