I could read a room like a map to my survival. Filled your glass before you were thirsty. Softened my voice so you wouldn’t get mad.

I became what was needed. Showed you the reflection you wanted to see.

But real love isn’t shape-shifting. It’s not vanishing on cue. It’s not severing myself to fit your story.

I’m not a balm. I’m a wildfire. And I’m giving myself room to burn.