you called me a project. 
you said I was your project,
as if I was supposed to sit silent,
a porcelain doll perked up on your shelf,
and take your playful comment as
some type of compliment because you
ended it with “but I still love you”
your love means nothing if
your love means trying to change me
to mold me into something worth showing off
I am not some project for you to work on
when you’re trying to avoid your own shit
I do not need to be fixed like a faulty foundation or a crack in the wall 
do not try to paint me as a pretty picture to hang above your mantel
do not try to use your calloused hands to mold me into
a statue you keep on your shelf of trophies
as if you created who I am today 
my praise from others is not your praise 
my accomplishments aren’t because you decided to take an interest in me
my worth is not measured by the uneven scale you’ve been working with
sure, you may have found me broken,
ripped to pieces
wandering lost through this life of mine
but don’t dare think, 
for one fraction of a moment,
you had anything to do with how
I put myself back together

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