May 2019

She didn’t tear me down

all at once.

She took notes first.

Watched.

Listened—

when I talked about my father,

the weight I hated,

how I always felt

too much,

or not enough.

She asked questions

that sounded like care:

“Do you really want to eat that?”

“Are you sure that shirt fits?”

“Why do you laugh like that in public?”

“Why sing—your voice is just okay.”

And because I wanted to be loved,

I adjusted.

Started ordering less.

Wearing darker clothes.

Editing my laugh

like it was unprofessional.

Hiding the songs I wrote.

She never said I was broken—

not at first.

She just made me believe

I could be better

if I let her hold the chisel.

Little by little,

I handed over pieces.

Not because she took them,

but because she made me believe

I’d be more lovable

if I was less… me.

I told myself it was growth.

But I was disappearing.

And by the time

I looked in the mirror

and didn’t recognize the man

staring back—

she told me

he was finally

worth loving.

Read the Next Poem

I Wasn’t Waiting to Fail