The Only Bad You’d Ever Done

The only bad you’d ever done

was see the good in me—

a version of myself

I didn’t believe in,

a softness I’d buried,

a light I swore

I didn’t deserve.

You looked at me

like I was something worth keeping,

even when I was all sharp edges

and quiet storms,

even when I pushed you away

just to see if you’d stay.

You loved the parts of me

I learned to hide,

held the pieces

I was ashamed to touch,

saw something whole

in someone who felt

always broken.

Maybe that was the problem—

you saw the best in me

when I was drowning

in the worst of myself.

Maybe the only bad thing

you ever did

was believe

I was better

than I knew how to be.