Unprofessional

I sat in your chair

but you never really saw me

just a shadow stitched together

from stories I didn’t choose.

Your questions weren’t questions,

they were verdicts in disguise,

loaded with assumptions

you’d already decided were true.

You nodded, but not to listen

only to wait

for the next place to cut me off,

to shrink me down

into something easier to dismiss.

You spoke of “professionalism”

like it was a crown you wore,

but all I saw

was bias dressed up in a blazer,

judgment hiding behind a smile

that never reached your eyes.

I answered with honesty,

you answered with doubt.

I offered growth,

you clung to my past

like it was a stain that wouldn’t wash out.

Tell me

how do you measure a future

with a ruler stuck in yesterday?

How do you claim fairness

while rewriting me

into someone I’m not?

You never asked who I’ve become,

only who I used to be.

And somehow, in your silence,

you made that the only thing

that mattered.

So keep your polished desk,

your scripted lines,

your hollow definition of “fit.”

Because if this is your version of respect,

then maybe the real failure here

was never me.