What About Me?

 


I have given bad a chance.

Let it whisper into my ears, crawl into my skin,

wear its chaos like perfume,

thinking maybe pain is a form of love too.


I have given fun a chance

nights that bled into mornings, laughter echoing off empty walls,

grinning through exhaustion, dancing through silence,

trying to feel alive by escaping myself.


I have given commitment a chance.

I have poured my loyalty into hands that trembled to hold it,

stitched promises into my spine,

stood still while others left

because I thought staying meant strength.


I have given them all a chance.

The ones who couldn’t see me beyond their convenience.

The ones I wrote poetry about,

even when they barely spoke in prose.


I have given forgiveness a chance.

So many damn times.

Even when the apology never came.

Even when the scars were still red.

I held out grace like an offering

and called it healing.


I have given patience a chance.

I waited. And waited.

For change. For recognition. For love that didn’t hurt.

For the world to finally notice that I am trying.


But what about me?

What about giving myself a chance?

What about saying:

"You are enough—even now, even like this"?


What about choosing to stay

when I want to disappear?

What about not editing my worth

just to fit someone else's page?


What about becoming the person

I’ve been looking for in everyone else?


What about letting go of all the masks

the strong one, the cool one, the quiet one, the perfect one

and just… breathing as me?


I have lived too long

as a second character in my own story.

But now—now I am daring to ask:

What if I am the main plot twist?

What if I give myself the love

I’ve been breaking for?


What if healing isn't something I have to deserve

but something I am owed

by the simple fact that I am still here?


This time, I want to give me a chance.

No conditions. No comparisons.

Just the raw, trembling truth of it:

I want to be mine.

Fully. Finally. Fiercely.


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