They Will See You: A Poem For Andrea

You were born into their version,
wrapped in a narrative
you did not write.
Every room you entered
echoed with the shape of their voice,
the one that called you
too much,
too cold,
too difficult,
too wrong.

They named you
with words like knives—
then stepped back
to admire their handiwork.

And for a time,
the world bent to their telling.
Even your own reflection
became unreliable.
You learned to doubt your softness,
to second-guess your stillness,
to apologize for the way
you simply were.

But listen to me now—
the world is not their stage.
It does not belong to them.

There are eyes
that are not blinded
by the smoke of their slander.
There are minds
that ask questions,
that search deeper
than the first whisper.

There are hearts
that know the difference
between cruelty
and clarity.

And they will see you.

They will see you
not as their accusation,
but as your becoming.
They will read the way
you offer calm instead of chaos,
how you respond with grace
when given an open wound.

They will notice
how you never raise your voice,
but always raise the room.
How your hands
build comfort,
not cages.
How your love
asks for nothing
but honesty.

They will see
how steady your light is—
how it never flickers
in the presence of theirs.

And they will understand.

That the hatred they spewed
was not a revelation—
but a confession.

And it will not stick.
It will not stain.
It will not outlast
the truth of you.

Because you, love—
you are not their words.
You are not their fear.
You are not their damage
masquerading as gospel.

You are your own name.
Your own voice.
Your own soft, steady proof.

And they will see you.
The will know you.