They used to smile when they said my name,
held their clipboards high
like I’d won the prize.
“Making progress,” “bright-eyed,” “stable and strong”–
I was their favorite
until I proved them wrong.
I learned how to answer in balanced tones,
how to cry just right but never moan.
I gave them breakthroughs dressed in grace,
and tucked my panic behind my face.
They’d bring the new ones by my door,
say, “Look how far they’ve come, and more.”
But no one saw the cracks beneath,
the silent bleeding underneath.
I was the favorite until I broke,
until the laughter caught in my throat.
They marked me “hope” in black and red,
then sighed when I cracked instead.
They loved me most when I played the part–
but they looked away
when I lost my heart.
The compliments turned quiet fast,
replaced by silence built to last.
They spoke in code around my name,
and whispered numbers steeped in shame.
The nurse who used to sit and chat
now closes doors–won’t do that.
And the doctor nods, but never stays,
like favorites only count on good days.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight.
I just stopped shining quite so bright.
And in the quiet, I finally knew–
they only love what they can use.
So now I sit behind the glass,
and watch the new ones as they pass.
They look at me like I’m a goal–
not knowing
I’ve already lost control.