Perfect insecurities

I wore my doubt like skin tight, uncomfortable, but mine. Years passed, and I forgot what it felt like to exist without questioning every step, every stare, every silence. I’ve stood in mirrors, measuring my worth by the curve of my waist, the tremble in my voice, the things I could never change. I’ve apologized for being too much, then not enough. I’ve rewritten myself to fit into rooms I didn’t belong in, shrinking to make others feel taller. Insecurity was my shadow, a loyal one. It knew all my secrets, spoke louder than my joy, and rested in the parts of me I tried to bury. But something changed. Not all at once, like morning sneaking in under the curtain. I started seeing beauty in the broken, a kind of poetry in the cracks. I met others smiling, glowing and realized they, too, were haunted by quiet battles. And in that knowing, my shame softened. My insecurities are still here, but they no longer define me. They’ve become a part of the painting, not the flaw, but the brushstroke that gives it soul. I don’t love them, but I’ve learned to live with them like rain that waters even the weeds I never asked for. One day, I will rise above them. With pride in the parts they tried to break.