I’ve become the sight I hate.
The kind you don’t linger on.
The kind you blur in the background
of better things.

And I hate that it’s me.
I hate that I see it.
And I hate that I can’t stop looking.

There’s this battle
under my skin.
And I don’t know who’s winning anymore.

See,
there’s this voice.
Not loud.
Not screaming.
Just… constant.

It says things like:
“You’re not good enough.”
“You’ll never be like them.”
“Why even try?”

And I want to fight it.
God, I want to fight it.
But some days, it wears my voice
so well
I forget which one of us is speaking.

People say comparison is a thief.
But I think it’s more of a mirror.
One I never asked to stand in front of.
One that shows me
everyone I’m not,
and everything I’m supposed to be.

And it’s not about being pretty.
It’s not about being thin.
It’s about being seen.
Being chosen.
Being wanted
the way I want others.
Deeply.
Desperately.
Dangerously.

I love like I’m trying to prove I exist.
And they love back
like they’re trying not to get too close.
And I don’t blame them.
Who wants to hold a heart
that’s always overheating?

But this poem?
This isn’t about them.
This is about me.
This is about the war
that wakes up when I do.
The one humming
just beneath the surface.
The one no one sees.

It’s about looking in the mirror
and not recognising the face
that looks so tired
from fighting itself.

It’s about once liking my smile,
then watching it dim
into something rehearsed.
Like a lifeboat
I send out
to stop people from asking,
“Are you okay?”

Because how do you explain
a sadness
that doesn’t have a story?
A grief
with no grave?

How do you explain
that the enemy lives in your head
and every thought
feels like it’s laced
with tiny knives?

I am both soldier
and battleground.
Both destroyer
and the ruins I leave behind.

I tear myself down
because it hurts less
than being torn down by someone else.
I belittle what I love about myself
so it won’t hurt
when no one notices.

I set the bar so low
I trip over it.
Then apologise for bleeding.

But here’s the part
that shatters me most.

There are people who see me.
Kind eyes.
Soft voices.
And I still don’t believe them.

Because when you’ve built your worth
on how much you lack,
every kind word
feels like pity
in a prettier dress.

And I’m tired.
Tired of being at war
with a version of myself
I never chose.
One I inherited
like a name
that never really fit.

I’m tired of loving so fiercely
and being held like a side note.
Tired of giving everything
and still feeling like a draft
no one wants to finalise.

But I am not a footnote.
I am not a glitch.
I am not delicate
but I am human.
And God—
haven’t I been broken enough?

So this is me.
Calling a truce.
Not because I’ve won.
But because I’m done
letting me be the one
to pull the trigger
and call it self-awareness.

If I am a war,
then I want to be
the kind worth surviving.
The kind that ends
with something still breathing.
Even if it’s just
me.