Just Me I don’t see what he sees. He says: clever, but my thoughts feel cluttered, a slow tangle of almost‑ideas doomed to never bloom. talented, yet my fingers hesitate, hovering over half‑finished hopes I’m too shy to ever try. beautiful, but the mirror mutters back in muted tones as eyes pause at the flaws. funny, but my jokes are bitter, sputtering slivers of vitriolic wit scattering anywhere, everywhere. And still his words arrive again and again, a chorus of praise I don’t believe, Maybe one day I’ll catch a glimpse of what they insist exists. But for now I'm just me. Just me trying to trust they’re not wrong about who I am.