I used to know who I was.
I think.

Before I bent myself into something
you might actually want.
Before I started checking your mood
before I spoke mine.

You never hit me—
but God, the way you disappeared
while standing right in front of me
left bruises I still press
just to feel something real.

I kept shrinking,
telling myself it was compromise.
Kept quiet,
calling it peace.

Started questioning my own voice,
like maybe I was too much,
too needy,
too tired,
too everything you didn’t want
but wouldn’t say out loud.

I learned to flinch at kindness—
thought love meant
earning my place
every single day.

You weren’t cruel.
You were careless.
And somehow,
that broke me worse.

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore—
just the outline of someone
waiting to be chosen
by a man
who never even looked.