Someone once asked me —
Why don\'t you write a poem about yourself?
I smiled ----- but Something trembled inside.
About myself? What would I even say?
I don\'t know what that feeling is supposed to be.
But today ----- I tried.
I\'ve always written about love —
That imagined kind, the one that never arrived.
Love I longed for, the kind I thought I needed.
I used to wonder -----
What would happen if someone walked into my life?
If someone confessed their love — how would it feel?
And then I\'d ask myself:
why am I even thinking this? maybe I shouldn\'t --
But what if ----- I confessed love to myself instead
what if ---- my eyes met my own reflection and
said, \"You are beautiful — inside and out.\"
What then?
I\'ve fought with myself, doubted myself.
Torn pieces of me apart to be enough for someone else.
But today ---- I tried loving myself.
And it was quiet, unfamiliar, yet tender.
Like the first drop of rain on a parched soul.
What if ---- I could be my own most beautiful story?
They shout, they scold, their voices fill the air.
I laugh --- like a fool in love with chaos.
They ask \"why are you laughing like that?\"
I don\'t answer.
Because I know — If I stop, my tears might escape.
So, I laugh louder.
Not to silence them — But to hush the storm inside me
Sometimes, I believed they loved me.
Maybe in some fleeting way, they did.
But It was my skin they clung to —
Not the soul that was aching beneath.
I gave & gave, until I was weary of being a gift.
They loved what could fade -----
But not the spirit that only wanted to feel safe.
And now I regret — Not the absence of their love, But
that I kept seeking it Before I ever dared to choose my own.
But today ---- I looked at myself not through their eyes,
Not through their minds,
Not through the lens of pain or perfection —
But through truth.
I touched my soul with words.
I held my heart without apology.
I called myself worthy —
without needing a witness.
And in that quiet moment ----
I became the love I\'d been writing about All along.