Some days, a tiny creature 
wakes up inside my chest, 
a moth‑sized doubt with button eyes 
and too much interest. 

It flutters through my ribcage 
with a soft, persistent bluff, 
whispering in a velvet voice, 
what if you’re not enough?

It’s polite about its haunting, 
it never claws or makes a scene;
just rearranges furniture 
in corners left unseen. 

It tugs a little at my sleeve, 
it taps a little cup, 
and every now and then it asks, 
are you sure you measure up?

But later, when the evening comes 
and quiet fills the room, 
the creature curls its wings again 
and drifts into the gloom. 

It settles down without a fight, 
as if it knows the truth: 
that even doubts grow tired too, 
and fade like fleeting youth. 

And though it may return again 
to test the fragile day, 
it never quite remembers 
all the things I’ve lived my way.