Writers 
Self-Esteem Has Been Messed With
“Their words don’t get to me,”
I said,
but self-esteem has been
messed with.
I kept every little thing within me.
I said I was fine so many times
that I started believing the lie,
smiling through the days
while something inside me
slowly changed.
Self-esteem has been messed with.
I overthink what is meant to be normal.
I lost count of how many times
I had to check the mirror
to make sure I looked good.
Sometimes, I wonder
if people notice the little things
I spend hours worrying about.
Do they see what I see,
or am I the only one
who notices every tiny flaw
that makes me feel less like myself?
Self-esteem has been messed with.
I don’t even believe in me anymore.
I miss the old me,
the one who didn’t question
every little thing about herself.
The one who could laugh freely
without wondering how she looked,
who could speak without replaying
every word in her head afterward,
who didn’t need constant reassurance
to believe she was enough.
Self-esteem has been messed with.
I don’t even get attached to emotions anymore.
When they leave, they leave.
At least, that’s what I tell myself,
because caring too much
has become something I fear.
I pretend their words don’t matter,
but sometimes, in the quiet,
I hear them all over again.
And I wonder when I became
someone who needed to convince herself
that she was worth believing in.
Maybe I am not as fine as I claim to be.
Maybe healing begins
when I stop pretending
that nothing ever hurt me.
