The Worth of Me

I base my self-worth on what others think—
a mirror held up, but never quite reflecting me.
Who am I now, after all these years
of molding myself to fit their expectations?
I am an echo, a shadow, a reflection—
assimilating bits and pieces from people I like,
hoping if I stitch them together,
I might create someone worthy.

I don’t want to be alone.
I am alone.
There’s a hollow space where connection should live,
a vacancy sign flickering in the dark corners of my heart.

Is there something of me that is worth something—
anything—love, even?
I search inside, peeling back layers of myself,
only to find the same aching questions:
Do I deserve this?
How do I go on?
Should I go on?

Pain is my compass, regret my guide—
rejection a familiar friend I cannot shake.
I want to believe there’s something of value
in this tangled mess of thoughts and fears,
but every time I reach out,
all I find are masks, false smiles,
phantoms pretending at friendship.

I don’t have friends because everyone feels so phoney—
laughter that’s too loud, words that ring hollow.
And so I withdraw, slipping into the shadows
where at least the silence feels honest.

But is this all there is?
A life of borrowed identities,
patchwork pieces sewn together with threadbare hope?
I am tired of pretending,
tired of being something I am not
just to feel a moment of connection,
a flicker of warmth.

Yet here I am,
standing on the precipice of my own despair,
wondering if there’s a way out,
if there’s a way forward.
Or if this is just how it ends—
a whisper lost in the wind,
a question unanswered,
a soul adrift in the dark.