Between Bruises & Blooms

Fuck you
for teaching me to measure myself
by how gently you held me.

For every night
I stared at my reflection
and searched my own face
for whatever made you leave.

I picked myself apart
like a crime scene—

too loud,
too needy,
too much,
not enough.

I put my heart on trial
for something
you were guilty of.

And somehow
your silence became evidence
that I was difficult to love.

God,
I hate you for that.

I hate that there was ever a moment
when I thought your inability
to choose me
meant I wasn’t worth choosing.

That I mistook your distance
for a verdict.

That I made myself smaller
trying to fit inside
the space you were willing to give me.

I was worth the phone call.

Worth the explanation.

Worth the effort.

Worth someone saying,
I’m scared, but I’m here.

Worth being loved
without having to bleed
for proof of it.

And you—

you do not get to take credit
for the woman crawling out
of the wreckage.

I found her.

Underneath the unanswered messages.
Underneath the nights I couldn’t sleep.
Underneath every cruel little question
that sounded like,

What is wrong with me?

Nothing.

Nothing was wrong with me.

I was simply standing
in front of someone
who could not hold
what I was offering.

So fuck you
for making me forget my worth.

But thank God
I remembered.