I have never been one to know my worth—
always measuring myself in fractions,
always finding less than whole.
But meeting you took “less”
and carved it down to nothing.

You made me feel unlovable,
a ghost in the room, a shadow at your feet.
Time and time again, you chose everyone else,
and time and time again,
I let you.
I let you because I thought I deserved nothing more.

You kept me on your own timeline,
offering crumbs, never a feast,
and I swallowed every excuse
because I thought even scraps
were something close to love.

“You shouldn’t have told her—
you probably ruined her night.”
But no, she didn’t.
You did.
You ruined my nights, my hope, my peace,
but I let you, didn’t I?
I let you every time I forgave,
every time I made excuses,
every time I prayed you’d change
only to watch you stay exactly the same.

And then—just when I swore
I could take no more—
you held my hand.
For the first time.
For the first time, your skin met mine,
and I let myself believe.

I lay beside you,
my fingers mapping the ridges of your spine,
my lips pressing against your cheek,
the scent of sunscreen tangled in your hair.
I finally heard it from your own mouth,
not from whispers, not from hopeful hearts
“I like you.”
“If things were easier, I’d pursue you.”
And I believed you.

But a week is all it took
for you to pretend none of it happened.
The slow replies.
The canceled plans.
The empty air where effort should have been.
Before, I would have smiled, said it was fine,
but now that I have felt your skin—
it is not fine.
It will never be fine again.

I told myself I wouldn’t cry over a man.
I made myself busy.
I swallowed the sadness,
tried to turn it to anger,
but anger was never strong enough
to silence the truth.

I did not weep for you.
I wept for myself.
For the girl who lost her respect,
who let herself be made so small
she forgot how to stand.

But I am standing now.
And I am not unlovable.
I deserve more than the empty space you left behind.
I would have given you the world—
and you wouldn’t have even given me dinner.

No more.
No more waiting.
No more hoping.
No more settling for less than what I deserve.
I am learning my worth.
And this time, I will not forget it.

Lately, I’ve seen a quote circling—
“I hope you get everything you wanted,
and I hope I hear nothing about it.”
People wear it like a badge, sing it like a creed,
as if silence is strength, as if distance is healing.

But I have to disagree.

I do hope you get everything you want—
but I also hope that everything you want is me.

Another quote lingers in my mind—
“Please, God, don’t let me miss him in a wedding dress.”
That, I can stand by.
I hope I am your everything,
but if I never become that,
then let me feel the weight of it,
let me grieve what I must—
and then, let me go.
Let me find the one who sees me as I see them,
who meets me in the place where love is chosen, not just felt.

But don’t let me be the last to know.

I don’t want to learn from whispers,
or a post I wasn’t meant to see.
Give me the dignity of knowing,
the respect of truth from your own lips.

So I rewrite the quote in my own way—
“I hope you get everything you wanted,
and I hope I’m the first to hear of it.”

Because the thought of finding out
that my everything has found their everything elsewhere
through a screen—
that, to me, is what’s devastating.

Maybe I think differently than most.
Maybe I am not your everything.
But I hope I hear of everything.

You call at all hours deep into the night,
I wake just to answer, though weary and worn,
Yet never a moment is mine in your sight.

I offer you wisdom, I soften your plight,
I listen to burdens I’ve no need to mourn—
You call at all hours deep into the night.

You argue, insisting your troubles hold might,
Proclaiming my struggles are easy, forlorn,
Yet never a moment is mine in your sight.

No bills to be paid, no rent set in sight,
While I toil and labor from dusk until dawn—
You call at all hours deep into the night.

My world feels so heavy, yet silent, polite,
While yours spins in dramas that vanish by morn,
Yet never a moment is mine in your sight.

Were we not bound by blood, I’d let go of this fight,
For love should be given, not endlessly torn
You call at all hours deep into the night,
Yet never a moment is mine in your sight.

I think we should be together for more reasons than one.
For example, my favorite songs are melodies, and you always liked to hum.
But perhaps the hum of the drum can’t close the chasm of space, so I offer another one.

I shy from touch—I shrink away,
It startles, it stings, it’s never stayed.
To be held always felt like too much,
but when your fingers intertwined with mine,
it didn’t seem to bother me much.
No, now it’s all I want,
because the thought of your hand in mine becoming a memory
is something I can’t unfeel.

Three—I like to think I’m fun, but you keep me moving,
you pull me forward, push me further, make me more.
Four—I can’t imagine another concert
without your hand in mine,
without adding another song to our story’s score.

Five—you know me better than the rest.
They say I don’t tell, but to you, I always do.
Not my own, but the whispers I swore I’d keep—
yet somehow, they slip, because with you, silence never stays.

Six—I was never the main character,
always watching from the wings.
But when I lie at your side, the world quiets,
the chaos stills,
and for once, I am real.

Seven—I never feared death,
but now the thought of our story unfinished
haunts me more than being gone.

Eight—why not try?
Would it be hard? Would it hurt? Would it take work?
Yes.
But what if it could be great?
What if it could be the greatest love story ever told?

Nine—I won’t ask again,
but I’m weary of answering the same question:
Why aren’t we already an “us”?

And finally, ten—
I could write poem after poem about you
and never seem to find the end.

How can I feel like a stranger,
Only where my blood runs deep?
Maybe it’s because home feels like you,
Even though it could never be.
Some say I should be grateful,
I should be content—
Can’t I still long for more?
Kneeling, I pray for you.

Tangled in memories of open arms,
I used to melt into every embrace,
but now even a brush of skin
sends a shiver I can’t explain.

Once, touch felt like home,
a language spoken without words.
Now it lingers like an echo,
familiar yet distant, haunting me.

Underneath the discomfort,
there’s an ache I can’t name—
is it emptiness, is it longing,
or is it just him?

Clutching at air, at absence,
I tell myself I don’t need it,
but my body remembers
the last time I truly did.

Held for the last time,
three months and counting,
by the only arms that ever
felt like they wouldn’t let go.

Fingers trace the pages, hearts untold,  
Aching where the fiction burns her skin.  
Touches linger longer than they should,  
A spark too fierce to quiet deep within.  
Lust is not a whisper—it’s a scream.  

Yearning swells in every glance, unchecked,  
Every fleeting brush ignites the flame,  
And still, she drowns in all that she expects,  
Ravaged by a hunger with no name.  
Never his, yet bound by his embrace,  
In his arms, she burns and lets him take,  
Nothing quenches longing’s cruel embrace,  
Giving in to what she’ll never break.

You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
Each half-spun tale ignites a darker fire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

You speak in riddles, dodging clear confines,  
Yet every name you bury fuels my ire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

You think me blind, but darling, I divine  
The ghosts you hide—I know your every liar,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

I let it slide, my silence once benign,  
But venom drips from all that you conspire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

I dream of ways to make your secrets mine,  
To watch you squirm beneath the tangled wire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

Still, here I stay—though fury blurs the lines,  
Your pretty words are drowning in the mire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.

You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
A name withheld, a story left unclear,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

You never speak the truth that meets my eyes,  
The gaps you leave are louder than you fear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

Each hesitant confession I despise,  
Yet love still tethers me, though pain is near,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

I know the who, the what—your vague replies,  
You dance around the things I hate to hear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

But if I call you out, the moment dies,  
I bite my tongue and swallow down the tear,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

One day, perhaps, the truth will meet my eyes,  
Or I will leave before it disappears—  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.