Part I · Illusion
Shapeable
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.