Growing up, the feeling of being
good enough was very seldom felt.
Living in a broken down house that I was forced to call home and
forever trying to please people who were only pleased by pills
ripped me from my hinges and shattered me into pieces,
like the doors and coffee tables I've watched my father destroy
time and time again.
I tried my best and my best was never
enough.
And for them, I am still not
enough.
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Seeing compassion and adoration in a stranger's eyes
opened mine to what could come.
The undeniable love from a girl with a genuine smile and golden heart
helped me grow and blossom into
a garden not of hate but of hope.
Finally I was good enough!
Until.
Until the morning kisses went away,
and "Do better" came every day.
Until the realization of imperfection set in
and the promise of staying felt more like a deadbolt than a doorknob.
Until lying in bed together
felt less like heaven and more like sin.
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At least my parents tried to fix the house.
At least they tried to flush the pills.
At least they tried to pretend that things were good enough.
At least they didn't give up.

At least I'm trying not to overdose.
At least I'm trying to fix us.
There is no denying that for you,
I will never be
enough.
And I've never been good at closing doors,
But at least I'm not giving up.