By skyforbes I used to live inside a frame
that someone else designed—
thin wood, brittle corners,
a window carved from fear.
Through it, the world was tilted,
too large, too sharp, too near.
And I was always smaller
than the shadows at the edge.
But then a crack appeared—
a kindness, a truth, a breath—
and light slipped through
like a visitor who’d been waiting
for decades to be let in.
Slowly, I began to build again,
not with terror, not with duty,
not with the trembling hands
of a child forced to make sense
of senseless things—
but with the steady palms
of someone waking up.
My new frame has room.
Room for truth,
room for uncertainty,
room for the quiet dignity
of being exactly who I am.
It is shaped by self-respect—
the kind that doesn’t shout
and doesn’t shrink,
but stands calmly in its own light
and allows others theirs.
It is held together by honesty—
the soft kind,
the kind that doesn’t wound or win,
but simply says,
“This is what is real for me,”
and listens when you say
what is real for you.
In this frame,
I am no longer the frightened echo
of someone else’s story.
I am the author.
I am the lens.
I am the one who chooses
what enters and what stays.
And those who can stand beside me—
truthful, respectful, awake—
fit easily inside its borders.
Those who cannot
fade outside the edges,
not with anger,
but with clarity.
Now the world is larger
than my fears ever allowed.
And the frame I see it through
is strong enough
to carry joy,
wide enough
to hold connection,
real enough
to stay.
This is the frame I build
when I finally trust the builder.
This is the world I see
when the window becomes my own.