"It Was I"

Child.

My love was announced through colored handprints.

Excitement trembled in my chest, but I held the craft safely.

My father towered over me as I made the great reveal.

I later spotted the blue paper crumpled in the trash.

As I unfolded it, I noticed all the cracks. All the smudges.

It wasn’t his fault. I was sloppy.

I broke my own heart that day.

Teen.

The fabric caressed me like a breeze.

The skirt danced on its own.

Praise crept into my mind, but I was modest, as I was taught.

“You look like trash,” my mother said.

My reflection glared at me then.

My hips poked out… too much.

Skin too rough. Legs too twisted.

It wasn't her fault. I hadn’t chosen correctly.

I broke my own heart — once more.

Young Adult.

Their arms became my safety.

Their eyes encompassed my future.

Forever concreted around my finger.

I felt scared, but I remained loyal, as expected.

“I just don’t feel the same,” they said.

Memories flashed before me.

Gullibility dressed me. My heart was dull.

It wasn't their fault. I had misread the signals.

I broke my own heart — as usual.

Adult.

I reached out. I tried.

I was confused, but I kept growing

as the world challenged my spirit.

“It’s not good enough,” they said.

As I spoke to my soul, I felt it.

It wasn't their fault. I was in charge.

“No,” I stomped. Then—

I healed my own heart.