just a heart learning how to heal

ask why I’m still single,

as if it’s a punchline

I should be used to by now.

But later,

when the house goes quiet

and the world stops performing,

I lie awake

with a question that doesn’t joke back.

I wonder if there’s someone

whose hands were made

to hold a heart like mine,

or if I’m meant to love in silence—

always almost,

never chosen.

And the truth is,

their laughter fades fast.

I had a moment—

the kind that sits in your chest

like a stone dropped in still water.

The thought that maybe

love isn’t written for girls like me

unless I shrink myself

into someone easier to want.

That maybe no one will hold me

without first imagining

a thinner version

of the same heart.

It’s a cruel kind of math

subtracting pieces of myself

just to feel worthy

of something gentle.

But here’s the part

I’m still learning to believe:

if love requires me

to disappear

to be seen,

then it was never love

my stretch marks—lyrics.

If you can’t love the song,

I am the girl of almosts,

the soft‑edged maybe,

the one you text at midnight

but never take to morning.

I’ve learned the choreography

of being nearly enough—

how to smile like it doesn’t sting,

how to laugh like I don’t notice

the way your eyes skip my body

like a stone across water.

But here’s the truth you never asked for:

I am not a consolation prize.

I am a universe in full bloom,

hips like horizons,

heart like a cathedral.

One day, someone will choose me

without hesitation—

and you’ll realize

maybe was always your word,