Writers 
I learned too early how it feels to not be chosen,
to stand outside a moment meant for someone else,
to watch the door swing shut before it opened,
to wonder what was wrong with only myself.
So I built a wall disguised as understanding,
I lowered my expectations before they could be tried,
I told myself I didn't care, while quietly demanding
that no one see how much I bled inside.
I learned to shrink my voice in crowded rooms,
to soften my opinions just to keep the peace,
to swallow my own light to fit inside the gloom
of spaces where my presence felt like a disease.
I feared the word "no" before it left their mouth,
I feared the silence after messages I sent,
I feared the version of myself that faced the drought
of being unwanted, being unwelcomed, being spent.
But somewhere along this quiet, aching road,
I began to see the fear for what it truly was —
not proof that I was broken, not too heavy a load,
just a wound still healing, still learning how to trust.
Rejection is not always a verdict on your worth,
sometimes it's simply distance, sometimes it's just not right,
sometimes the closing door protects a better birth,
a future built for you beyond this present night.
So I am learning, slowly, to stop shrinking to be safe,
to stop begging rooms to want me, to stop earning my own space,
I am learning that belonging isn't something I should chase,
it's something I already carry, in my own name, in my own place.
And if they walk away, if they choose someone instead,
I will not crumble quietly, I will not disappear,
I will remind myself of everything unsaid
that I was never too much. I was simply, finally, here.