Where my Worth Disappears

I know my worth.

I’ve walked away from hands

that held me like something temporary.

I’ve closed doors on people

who measured me beneath the weight

of what I would’ve given them.

I demanded equal care,

equal effort,

equal love.

Yet with you,

every boundary folds like paper in rain.

Standards I carved from scars

become smoke the moment you speak.

I ignore the imbalance,

dress neglect in excuses,

call distance “complicated”

instead of what it is.

I push away those

who would’ve come close,

only to leave space beside me

reserved for you alone.

A throne built from isolation.

A kingdom with one ruler

and one prisoner.

I tell myself I could leave.

That the lock was never real.

But you walked away with the key,

and somehow the door still answers to your hands.

You open it when loneliness aches.

Step inside when silence becomes unbearable.

You hold me close enough

to remember what warmth feels like,

then leave before morning

with the same ease

someone shuts off a light.

And every time the door slams shut again,

I remain inside,

surrounded by the echoes

of a love that only visits

when it needs somewhere to stay.