Handled

Twenty-dollar bill.

Crumple it.

Step on it.

Spit on it.

Still twenty.

Funny...

I understood that about money

before I understood it about me.

I took rejection like depreciation.

One person left,

I lowered the estimation.

One boss passed me over.

One friend disappeared.

One woman knew the exact words

that made doubt sound sincere.

Too much.

Not enough.

Too cold.

Too intense.

Handed everybody markers

then wore whatever they wrote.

Started hearing their opinions

in my own damn voice.

That's when you know

you gave away too much control.

So I worked harder.

Won more.

Got useful.

Got known.

Walked into rooms

already wondering how I'd be scored.

Ten people say I killed it.

One says,

"You could've done better."

Guess which one

I carried through the door.

That's when it hit me.

I wasn't building confidence.

I was renting it

from whoever clapped the loudest.

I kept asking people

who mishandled me

to tell me

what I was worth.

That's like asking the thief

to appraise

what he stole.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

Took me too damn long

to learn the difference.

Folded up.

Dragged around.

Still the number never changed.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

You leaving couldn't lower me.

You loving couldn't raise me.

You can hold something wrong

without changing

what it is.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

I learned value

like life was one big scoreboard.

Salary.

Title.

Who called.

Who didn't.

Who opened the door.

Who introduced me

like my name carried weight.

Who left me on read.

Who needed me.

Who made me wait.

I confused being useful

with being important.

Being wanted

with being known.

Some people love what you provide.

Take that away

and watch how quickly they go.

And being chosen ain't proof.

Somebody can choose you

for all the wrong reasons.

Because you're easy to control.

Because you're scared they'll leave.

Because broken people sometimes need

somebody else insecure

just so they can breathe.

Then they leave...

and you audit yourself.

What'd I lack?

What'd I miss?

What did somebody else have

that made me easier to dismiss?

That's where I got lost.

Turned somebody else's preference

into evidence against me.

Somebody treating you cheap

ain't market evidence.

Sometimes the wrong hands

just hold you long enough

to make you forget

what you are.

Maybe I never needed

a better appraisal.

Maybe I needed to stop

handing everybody else

the calculator.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

Your leaving couldn't lower me.

Your loving couldn't raise me.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

And I ain't gonna make this

some clean little lesson.

Some hands left dents.

Some words still show up

when I look at my reflection.

Some folds don't flatten.

Some stains stay.

Some damage changes

how you let the next person touch you.

That's real.

But damaged ain't devalued.

Changed ain't less.

And somebody leaving fingerprints on you

doesn't mean

they own what's underneath them.

Maybe healing isn't

getting back to who I was.

Maybe it's finally knowing

what happened to me

and what I am

aren't the same thing.

I can carry marks

without calling them my name.

I can admit somebody hurt me

without giving them

permanent ownership of what remained.

The twenty doesn't become nineteen

because somebody

didn't know what they had.

Neither do I.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

Got some folds

I don't need to straighten yet.

Got some words

I still hear sometimes.

Doesn't mean

I gotta believe 'em anymore.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.

You leaving couldn't lower me.

You loving couldn't raise me.

Maybe that's the part

I'm finally starting to get.

Handled wrong...

not worth less.