Weathered Worth

I don’t think I was born
believing I was hard to love.
I think I was taught it slowly—
in the spaces between replies,
in the way people stayed
only when I was useful,
only when I was easy,
only when I asked for nothing.
So I learned to become small.
Small enough not to bother anyone.
Small enough to be convenient.
Small enough to fit inside
whatever version of me
made other people comfortable.
And God, I have been tired
from trying to earn a place
in rooms I was already standing in.
I have laughed things off
that broke me.
I have said, “I’m fine,”
with my chest full of weather.
I have apologised
for needing reassurance,
then hated myself
for needing it at all.
Because somewhere inside me
there is still a voice
that says,
you are too much
and not enough
at the same time.
Too emotional.
Too difficult.
Too damaged.
Too needy.
Too late.
Not interesting enough.
Not attractive enough.
Not chosen enough.
Not worth the effort
of staying.
And I know,
I know,
people will say
you have to love yourself first,
but some days
that feels like asking a house
with no roof
to keep out the rain.
Still—
I am trying.
Trying to stop reading
my value
in the eyes of people
who never learned
how to see me clearly.
Trying to believe
that being left
does not mean
I was leaveable.
Trying to understand
that my worth
was not lost
just because someone else
put it down.
And maybe that is where
I begin again—
not as someone whole,
not as someone healed,
not as someone suddenly certain,
but as someone
who is tired
of treating himself
like an apology.