Borrowed Light

I used to dim my laughter on purpose,

like turning the stove down so it won’t hiss.

You said I was “too much,”

But you kept eating from my warmth anyway.

﹁﹂

I learned to smile small,

the kind that fits inside pockets,

the kind you can hide

When someone looks at you like a problem.

﹁﹂

Some nights I’d stand in the bathroom

with one busted bulb flickering above me,

watching my face split into versions

me before you, me during, me after.

﹁﹂

You wanted gratitude like rent,

paid on time, no questions asked.

You wanted my brightness to be useful,

not real.

﹁﹂

And still, I kept giving it away,

like a kid handing out sparklers

without realizing

The box will go empty.

﹁﹂

I started collecting myself in tiny things

a mug that says nothing,

a playlist with songs I didn’t share,

the quiet joy of walking home alone.

﹁﹂

One day, I caught my own reflection

smiling without checking permission first.

It startled me, honestly,

like seeing an old friend alive.

﹁﹂

Maybe I’m not hard to love.

Maybe you were just allergic

to anything that didn’t bow.

﹁﹂

I’m learning now

My light isn’t borrowed,

it’s mine…

And I don’t owe you the switch.