Why is it so difficult
to love ourselves
without first being loved by someone else?
Why does beauty feel more real
when a stranger notices it first?
Why do I only feel intelligent
after someone asks for my opinion,
as if my thoughts exist only once they are heard aloud?
It frightens me sometimes—
how much of my reflection
has been built
from other people's eyes.
A compliment can carry me for days.
One moment of rejection
can undo months of healing.
And I wonder
who I would become
if no one looked at me at all.
Would I still think I am beautiful?
Would I still believe I am worthy?
Would I still exist
in the same way I do now?
Or have I spent my whole life
borrowing my identity
from passing glances,
gentle words,
and the temporary affection of others?
Maybe that is why loneliness
feels so unbearable sometimes.
Not because we are alone,
but because without witnesses,
have we truly lived?
YOU ARE READING
|POEMS| The untold words...
Poetry|I never told you And you will never know The secrets the stars whispered to me That night under the moon| Cover credits to: @LeroyGraphics
