Good Enough

I spent so much of my life bending,
shaping my body, my thoughts,
into whatever others needed me to be.

Don’t talk back.
Don’t question me.
Don’t forget.

You are replaceable.
You are unworthy.

I learned to make myself smaller.
Quieter.
Easier to forget.
To ask forgiveness for things I hadn’t done.

I learned obedience
couldn’t promise safety.
Learned that disobedience
came at a cost.

A hand here.
A shove there.
Paint cans thrown.
A rib broken.
A flight of stairs.

Told to get back up.
Dust it off.
The pain lies.

It wasn’t that hard,
the bruises blooming under my shirt.
Deep purple, going green at the edges.

I watched the hands.
I measured the silence.
Studied the shift in someone’s voice,
the tightening of their jaw,
the pause before my name.

I became fluent in almost.
The calm cruelty they gave
before the fists met flesh.

I learned to bleed quietly.
To hide the bruises.
To arrange my face into something
that wouldn’t invite questions.

Even now I flinch when someone comes close.
I listen for what hasn’t been said.
I apologize for what hasn’t happened.
I brace for punishment
before I’ve been accused.

Because obedience taught me
how to survive the moment.
Vigilance taught me
the moment was never really over.

Sometimes
the room grows quiet.
The door is open.
No one is angry.
And still
I cannot convince myself
that quiet means safe.

That I’m finally good enough.