I wish I didn’t have to reinvent myself
just to be seen.
That the world wasn’t so harsh,
so cruel,
that people carried their own insecurities
instead of setting them down
on my shoulders.

I wish my African parents had taught me:
you are enough.
That anyone who says otherwise
isn’t telling truth,
just sharing taste.

I wish I could hold negativity in my hands
without reshaping myself around it,
without carving away at who I am.

I wish we looked at the world differently
saw the beauty in our separate ways of seeing,
the miracle of arriving at different truths
about the same sky.

I wish we saw life as art,
and every person as the artist of their own canvas,
without ranking whose colors are better,
whose brushstrokes are worth more.

I wish…
but maybe wishing is just another way
of saying I already know
what could be.

I take off my bracelets
sixty tiny memories hitting the floor like rain.
Three days later,
I put them back on,
as if the weight of them
could hold me steady,
as if metal could teach me permanence.

I cut my hair.
Let the extensions go.
Locks resting soft, just under my neck.
But then I see someone with hair down to her waist,
and my hands itch
to reach back,
to rewind,
to be long again.

Why can’t something ever be… enough?

Some days, I only love myself
when I am clean,
when my clothes fall just right,
when the mirror decides to be kind.
And some days,
I only love people
when they look like the aesthetic
my circle won’t laugh at.
Ashamed of a heart
because its skin,
its shoes,
its vibe
isn’t “Pinterest-perfect.”

How can we think like this
and still call it love?

But I’m learning
Freedom is not in the bracelets.
Not in the hair.
Not in the mirror,
the clothes,
or the crowd’s approval.

Freedom is when I let myself be.
Freedom is when I let you be.
Freedom is the moment I stop chasing “right,”
and start living “real.”

Because enough…
enough was never out there.
Enough has always been in here.