no such thing as enough

I learned early how to take up less space,
walking on the balls of my feet
so the floorboards wouldn't groan.

I thought love was a transaction—
a prize for the cleanest room
or the highest mark.

I spent years pruning my wild edges
into a topiary of everyone else's expectations,
a house of glass waiting
for someone to tell me I was finally
clear enough to see through.

Then came a boy who called me pretty,
so I became his mirror.
I wore the short skirts
and laughed at the jokes that weren't funny,
quieting my soul until I was
just an echo of his favorite songs.

But texts go dry.
Chairs at lunch grow cold.
Another door closes,
and another person exits the room
I worked so hard to build.

I am shrinking into a ghost,
polishing the surfaces of my life
until I can see my own desperate eyes
in the reflection.

I did the chores.
I got the grades.
I changed my shape for a boy
who never looked.

So I ask the dark,
when the bottle is empty
and the house is still:
Was I not good enough?

Or is there simply no such thing as "enough"
for people who only know
how to leave?