Quiet Hour

Why am I not good enough
when there’s always someone
prettier than me,
skinnier than me,
someone who fits the mold better?

Do I need to start doing my hair just right,
paint my face like a masterpiece
that isn’t really mine?
Do I need perfect nails,
perfect smiles,
perfect curves?

Do I need to be artificial—
polished, filtered, edited—
just to be chosen?
Is that really what guys want,
or is that just what the world keeps telling me?

Do I need to dress girlier,
show more skin,
wear confidence like revealing clothing
even when I don’t feel it underneath?

I keep wondering
how much of myself
I have to erase
before I’m finally enough.

But I don’t erase myself.
I don’t pretend.
I don’t become smaller or shinier
just to be seen.

I stay real.
I stay me.

And because of that—
I am alone.

Not the poetic kind of alone.
The kind that sits beside you
on the couch at night.
The kind that makes rooms feel too big
and silence feel personal.

No one reaches for me.
No one looks at me and decides
that’s the one.

I replay every moment,
every choice I didn’t make,
every version of myself
I refused to become.

I watch love find other people
so easily,
so naturally,
like I was never meant to be part of it.

I didn’t lose myself
trying to be loved—
but some nights
that feels like the loneliest victory.

Because I stayed me,
and still
no one came.