P.O.S

If I’m a piece of shit,

there’s a reason why—

people don’t just wake up

one day

already hardened,

already angry,

already convinced

they’re something disposable.

Something happened.

Maybe not all at once.

Maybe slowly—

in the ways I learned

to expect disappointment,

to keep my guard up,

to strike first

before something else

could hurt me.

Maybe I got tired

of being soft

in places

that treated softness

like weakness.

Maybe I became difficult

because easy

kept getting destroyed.

That doesn’t excuse everything.

I know that.

I know I’ve hurt people.

Know I’ve said things

I can’t take back,

become someone

I barely recognize

when the worst parts of me

take over.

But I’m tired

of acting like pain

appears out of nowhere.

Like damage

doesn’t leave fingerprints.

Because nobody asks

what made me this way.

They just point

at what I became.

And maybe

I am rough around the edges.

Maybe I carry too much anger,

too much regret,

too many things

I never learned

how to put down.

But underneath all of it—

under the bitterness,

the defense,

the self-destruction—

there’s still a person here

trying to understand

how they turned into someone

they never meant to be.

So if I’m a piece of shit—

there’s a reason why.

And maybe

understanding that reason

is the first step

toward becoming

something else.