When Being Useful Was Mistaken for Being Loved

I wasn’t loved—

not in the way that fills your bones with warmth

or makes the silence feel like safety.

I was useful.

Like a flashlight in a storm,

they only held me when the dark got loud.

They liked me

because I listened like rain on a roof—

gentle, steady,

never demanding a thing in return.

I was easy to talk to,

so they poured themselves into me

like I was hollow

and could carry it all.

No one asked if I needed space.

No one stayed when the room stopped spinning

around them.

I was the echo in a canyon—

only alive when someone needed to hear their own voice bounce back.

I became their diary,

their late-night phone call,

their confessional booth.

But when I cried,

my words felt like static,

tuned out

as if my pain wasn’t poetic enough.

I gave

and gave

until I became

a ghost with a heartbeat.

Smiling so they wouldn’t notice the cracks,

laughing so they’d keep talking—

because if I stayed useful,

maybe they’d stay too.

But usefulness is not love.

It’s currency.

And when I stopped giving,

they stopped calling.

I am learning now

that I deserve love

not for what I do,

but for who I am

when I’m silent,

tired,

and not easy to hold.

Even then—

especially then—

I am worth

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