At what point will you stop judging me. Poem, by Friendship, at My poetic side

Please

You seem to notice a multitude of faults in me—

cracks in the porcelain, dust on the sill,

the tremor in my voice when I try to be

steady, the way I falter, the way I stand still.

You tally each misstep, each unspoken word,

the silence that pools where laughter should be,

the edges I’ve sharpened, the songs left unheard,

the version of me I was meant to be.

You trace the old scars with an auditor’s eye,

subtract warmth from my tone, divide every lie

from the truth I wear thin like a threadbare coat—

as if love were a ledger, and I were the note

too flat to be sung, too cracked to be whole,

too burdened by shadow to kindle a soul.

But what if I said those flaws you perceive

are not wounds I wear, but the paths I believe

led me here—to this moment, to standing before you,

not flawless, but forged, and forever made new?

For the cracks let in light, and the silence has taught

me the depth of true words, the wisdom of thought.

The tremor? That’s courage. The stillness? A storm

that refuses to break, that keeps me warm.

So yes, count the cracks, name every stain—

but know this, beloved: I am not to blame

for being a mirror that shows you your fears,

your own silent faults, your unshed tears.

And if you see only flaw, if you miss the grace

in the mended and marred, the time-worn face—

then perhaps it is not my brokenness you see,

but the parts of yourself you refuse to be.

Yet still, I remain—not fixed, not whole—

but fiercely, tenderly, tending my soul.

Not less for the fractures, not small for the scars:

I am mine. And I shine just the way that the stars

are not perfect, but blazing—imperfect, and free.