Uncropped

I have smoothed the skin beneath my eyes
as if grief could be erased
with two fingers and a little bit of shame.

I have tucked in my stomach
for photographs no one will ever frame,
cropped myself out of joy
before it had a chance to fit.

I have whispered apologies to my thighs
for existing so loudly in denim,
and begged my body
to become something quieter.

I’ve watched beauty pass by like a train
I missed years ago
convinced it was a one-way ticket
I didn’t deserve to hold.

Some days, I am a bruise
covered in highlighter.
Some days, I am
the highlight itself.

I am learning that mirrors
only show what the world taught them to reflect—
and maybe I was never the problem.
Maybe the problem
was the lesson plan.

---

To My Readers:

If you’ve ever picked yourself apart in the mirror or measured your worth by how small you could shrink please know this: you were not born to be less.
Not in body. Not in spirit. Not in volume or voice. This poem is not a solution. It’s a hand reaching out from the same place.
I don’t have all the answers yet but I do know this much: the way we speak to ourselves is not always truth.
Sometimes it’s just echo.

Be gentle. You’re allowed to take up space.

Stay Weird. Love you. Mean it.
—No Apologies Just Stories.