self-worth
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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After they left, the fire remained—and grief slowly revealed itself as the same stubborn life still writing, rebuilding, and choosing tomorrow.
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The ocean never apologizes for its tides, and neither should a heart be ashamed for loving deeply.
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There was no final fight or slammed door, only silence cruel enough to make uncertainty feel like a haunted house.
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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
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Becoming means naming who she is now without softening it, and deciding which old versions no longer get to come along.
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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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Other people will keep inventing versions of her; the page remains where she refuses to shrink herself to fit any of them.
