I tried on three dresses, pulled them off again. Painted my face with color, only to wash into silence, slipping beneath the covers before the night even began. The party went on without me — my friends still waiting, but I whispered sickness as the same excuse, a mask I wear when the truth feels heavier than I can explain. And the mirror waits, a predator in glass, hunting every breath with its reflection. I run from it, as if my own gaze could swallow me whole. I don’t feel enough, never enough — not beautiful, not worthy. And though I speak of my ex, he isn’t the ghost that haunts me. The sharpest heartbreak has always been this war I wage against my own soul. I lie beneath the ceiling’s silence, tearing myself apart one imagined flaw at a time, every thought a bullet lodging deeper. I say I’m fevered, but the truth burns colder — it is only my reflection I cannot face. Inside, a voice dances like a cruel lover, leading me in circles, cutting me down with every step. And still, I don’t feel enough. Never strong enough, never whole enough. The trust I lose is not in others but in myself. And the heartbreak that lingers deepest is the quiet battle I fight with my own reflection. No doors slam, no one leaves — only me, undoing myself in silence. If love is meant to complete, why can’t I love the soul I carry? I don’t feel enough, never worthy enough. Not pretty, not strong, not whole. And though I whisper his name, he was never the one to wound me. The deepest cut is the loneliness I craft inside. I don’t feel enough. Never, never enough.