For many,
I am just an object —
A thing that shows reflection,
That breaks when anger is thrown,
That helps with selfies,
That assists in dressing up well.

But there’s a side no one sees:
I help build their confidence,
I make them feel beautiful,
I help them reverse safely,
Reflecting both their presence and pain.

I listen to their talks,
Their silent stares, their tears.
I’m there through their highs and lows,
Feeling their every emotion
Without ever saying a word.

And yet,
I’m just an object
Lying in a corner.
Forgotten.
Until needed again.

endure gracefully.
bleed beautifully.
but never too much,
never enough to make them uncomfortable.

cry.
but wipe your tears when you're done.
open your eyes wider,
don't look so depressed,
you're ruining the photo.

girly you can text me anytime
until we actually do
then its,
im not ur ******* therapist.
and a lingering guilt.

why has mental illness also produced standards we must meet,
standards in order to be accepted.
why are some shunned and some welcomed?

we are not an aesthetic.
not broken people in soft lighting.

i scream,
i rot,
i flinch when someone shows me affection,
i hate being hugged,
but still crave it the most.
am i still worthy of love?

1st step.
2nd.
3rd—
...pause.
2 steps back.
reset.
again.
again.

How does it end?

I ask
like I haven’t already
broken the answer
in my hands
a hundred times.

One moment,
I swear I see the path—
lit, clear,
like maybe I was meant for more.
The next,
I’m sinking into myself,
slow,
silent,
like grief with no name.

Hope is a ghost
I keep chasing in my sleep.
She never stays.
Not for me.

I smile like it means something.
Breathe like I’m not
falling apart
every second I’m awake.
No one sees
the cracks I carry in my chest.

I call it progress,
this pretending.
But it’s just
a prettier way
to bleed.

How will it turn out?
Maybe it won’t.
Maybe this—
this looping,
this aching—
is the only ending
I’ll ever know.