I hate that I care about the way they move,
About the ease in their steps,
About the way the world seems to open for them.

I hate that I care about how they shine,
About how they never hesitate,
About how their light feels louder than mine.

I hate that I care about the weight of envy,
About the way it twists joy,
About how it stays even when I know better.

I hate that I care about things that don’t matter,
About shadows that shift,
About echoes that fade.

I hate that I care about wanting to be more,
About thinking I should be different,
About forgetting I was already enough.

I hate that I care but I don’t have to anymore,
Because their path is theirs,
And mine was always waiting.

And maybe my steps are slower,
Maybe my light is softer,
Maybe my voice doesn’t rise above the crowd the way theirs does.

But that doesn’t mean I am less;
That doesn’t mean I am missing;
That doesn’t mean I am wrong.

I’ve spent too long chasing reflections,
Wishing for echoes,
Trying to fit into spaces that were never meant for me.

So I stand still—
And see myself clearly.

Not as second-best.
Not as almost.
Not as not-quite-enough.

But whole—unbroken, untouched,
Not missing pieces, not waiting to be more.
But steady—grounded in truth,
Unshaken by doubt and firm in what I am.
But real—not an imitation,
Not a comparison, not a shadow of someone else.

And in the quiet,
Without comparison,
Without envy,
Without doubt,
I realize I never needed to care at all,

As nobody cares but my own feeble mind,
That hates itself for caring.
I hate myself for caring.