The Ghost of Who You Needed

I became a chameleon
long before I knew the word for it
shifting my colors,
my tone,
my very shape
to match the room I entered.

A quiet magic,
born not from desire
but from survival.

To be adaptable
was to be safe.
To be unreadable
was to remain untouched.

No one can wound
what they cannot see clearly.

So I softened myself,
folded my edges inward,
and learned to become
whatever you needed me to be.

If you were loud,
I echoed thunder.
If you were quiet,
I sank into silence.
If you were broken,
I mirrored the fracture
so you wouldn't feel alone.

I thought that was love.
I thought that was belonging.

I didn't realize
I was disappearing.

People said it was strange
how I could mimic their gestures,
their tone,
their inner weather
as if I had slipped beneath their skin
and borrowed their heartbeat
for a moment.

I only wanted to be seen.
Instead,
I became a reflection
they didn't recognize
a distorted version of themselves
that startled them
when they looked too closely.

But this softness,
this gift I never asked for,
carried a quiet haunting:
I knew everyone,
yet no one knew me.
Not really.
Not fully.

My chameleon ways
kept me safe
in a world that felt too sharp,
too loud,
too unsure.

But safety has a price.
And mine was this
that every room I entered
became a mirror,
and I
was nowhere
to be found.