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I’m like that meal someone brings to the potluck,

but not something they’d make every day.

I’m everybody’s favorite,

but I can’t share the recipe—

nobody ever taught me how to bake.

I’m different, made from scratch—

you don’t even mind the stomach ache.

I fill you up over and over,

but get thrown away on the expiration date.

I’m the last one to show up—

but I’m always worth the wait.

You’ll have seconds, maybe even thirds—

funny, since you already ate.

I’m that bowl you licked clean after saying,

“Okay, just one taste.”

I’m the last-minute decision,

when things don’t go as planned.

Suddenly, I’m Mr. Steal Your Girl—

just because I treat you better than your man.

I’m the “Hey Mamas” personality

that grabs your attention at first.

I mix it up like a Sour Patch Kid—

but get treated like a Starburst.

“Oh, I’m fine! It’s no big deal!”

But this pain that you can’t feel…

Yeah, it still hurts.

Maybe your pain tolerance is higher than mine.

Or maybe you’re getting better—

while I’m getting worse.

See, we have similar wounds,

but my treatment plan doesn’t seem to work.

I’m that patient who’s oriented

but never fully alert.

I’m on a lot of lists titled “Priorities”—

not at the bottom, but never put first.

I come disguised like a blessing,

but change is scary, so now I’m your curse.

You think I’m hard to read,

but you never got past the cover—

let alone tried to read the book.

I’m the girl who never grew up,

but Peter Pan always beats Captain Hook.

I’m the band-aids, tape, and gauze—

the fix you reach for,

then forget once the bleeding stops.

I’m always a phone call away—

but the officer told you one call,

and you forgot my number anyway.

I’m the one you’ll see later…

but who told you you’d make it home today?

I’m the voice in your head

when you don’t want to speak,

but have too much to say.

I don’t always say the right thing—

“I’m sorry,” “Uno,” “Yahtzee”—

but I hate to lose,

so why even play?

I’m the fear that sinks in

when you’ve been on a winning streak all day.

I’m the one who knows every different tone in your voice

when you say,

“I’m okay.”

I’m the coin that spins midair,

taunting you with both sides,

never quite landing where you’d bet your life.

I’m the text you thought you sent,

still sitting in drafts—

unopened, unread, unmeant.

I’m the chill before your candle flickers out,

the last match you dare to strike.

I’m the hope you stored for a rainy day,

just for one last final goodbye.

I’m the taste of a lie you swallowed whole,

the scar you swore would fade.

I’m the proof that nothing holy stays clean,

but everything broken gets made.

I’m the glass that cuts without shattering,

the wound you reopen just for proof you can bleed.

I’m the ghost that seeps into creases,

the signal just out of reach.

I’m the one who grew beside you,

a lifetime ago—maybe two.

I wear a face that makes strangers stop and whisper,

“I remember you.”

I’m not here by accident,

not just holding empty space.

I’ve carried your name through centuries,

and I still know your face.