In Me
I am not ashamed—
that’s what I tell you.
That’s what I tell myself.
The mistakes made me. The wasted tears
sharpened something. The blood I’ve tasted,
the foolish choices, the restless nights—
call me whatever you want.
It won’t change a thing.
I’m not ashamed to lie when it serves a purpose.
Not ashamed to force the smile,
play the part, meet your eyes
with a steadiness I manufactured
somewhere along the way.
I’m not afraid of the dark.
Not afraid of being alone.
Not afraid of death.
I’m afraid you’ll see me.
The real me. The one underneath
the promises and the practiced grace,
the one who wakes up alone again tomorrow
and builds another mask before breakfast.
I can say “unashamed” until my voice gives out.
But the truth is just warm breath in the air—
gone before it lands.
I’m ashamed of the person I’ve become.
Ashamed of the mistakes that are grinding me down.
Ashamed you’ll find out who I really am.
Ashamed you’ll see who I was.
Most of all,
I’m ashamed that I never believed in me.
Not once.
Not when it counted.