I've been told I’m beautiful,
like it’s a fact I should memorize,
but mind argues back
and I believe the glass more
I've been told I’m intelligent,
yet I still choose wrong turns on purpose,
because some lessons refuse to arrive
unless you meet them face to face.
I like my mistakes honest,
felt in the body, not just understood.
They cost a little—time, pride, certainty
but they pay me back in clarity.
They say, You should know better,
as if knowing is the same as living,
as if wisdom doesn’t come
with scraped knees and bad decisions.
Seems that she wants a piece of me
my time, my softness, my hunger to feel
and I don’t mind giving it,
not when the price is learning who I am.
Being wanted feels like warmth,
like standing close to a fire,
accepting the burn
because heat means you’re alive.
Maybe one day I’ll keep more of myself,
choose carefully who earns access,
but I won’t regret the lessons
I paid for in small, survivable ways.
Beauty doesn’t need witnesses.
Intelligence survives mistakes.
And I am allowed to learn loudly,
if the cost is small
and the life is mine.