Becoming Worthy

Hail, The King

The long journey to becoming someone you no longer need to prove.

“The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it.” — James Baldwin

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Author: Jason Thomas (known as Xxodia)

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I used to hate pictures of myself.

Not all of them.

Just the honest ones.

The ones taken before I could fix my face, pull my shirt loose around my stomach, straighten my back, wet my lips.

At fourteen, I knew which bathroom light made my skin look better.

I would lock the door.

Shirt off.

Front.

Side.

Other side.

Suck it in.

Let it go.

Suck it in again.

My fingers pressed at my nose. Traced the dark marks along my cheek. Pulled at the corners of my mouth.

Some mornings I was late for school because I couldn’t get myself right.

Years later, I would sit outside a woman’s house doing the same thing.

Engine off.

Her porch light burning.

Phone warm in my hand.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then nothing.

I typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Something kind.

Gone.

Something cruel.

Gone.

Something beneath me.

Send.

The screen went black.

My face came back.

Older now.

Fresh haircut. Beard finally connecting. Jaw tighter.

Still checking.

I started the car.

Sat there with it running.

Her porch light went out.

That got me moving.

I drove home with the music loud enough to keep me from thinking.

It didn’t.

Morning came anyway.

White shirt.

Clean shoes.

Cologne at the neck.

I dressed carefully.

Nobody at work knew where I’d been.

Nobody knew what I’d sent.

Nobody knew I’d spent half the night trying to convince somebody to choose me.

By lunch I was laughing.

Years passed in small humiliations.

Names disappeared from my phone.

Others stayed too long.

A friend stopped calling.

I stopped asking why.

A relative said something at dinner and everybody kept eating.

I did too.

A woman touched my face once and told me I would be handsome if I gained a little weight.

I smiled.

Went home.

Stood sideways.

Somewhere in all of that, the boy disappeared.

Or maybe he just got taller.

I still found him in mirrors.

Barbershop glass with hair scattered around my shoes.

Elevator doors.

Car windows at red lights.

Black phone screens.

Storefronts.

Always catching myself before myself could.

Shoulders back.

Chin up.

Face straight.

Don’t look nervous.

Don’t look angry.

Smile.

Not too much.

Speak.

Not that loud.

There were rooms where I felt my skin arrive before the rest of me.

I studied those rooms.

Learned how much of myself to bring inside.

One morning, years later, I woke up and went to the bathroom.

Nothing special about the day.

My face was swollen from sleep.

Hair everywhere.

Scar near my cheek.

Stomach soft.

I turned on the light.

Looked up.

Waited.

Nothing.

Just my face.

I leaned closer.

Same lips.

Same skin.

Same eyes that used to look away first.

For once, I didn’t correct him.

I held the silence.

It followed me into friendships I had outgrown.

Into calls I stopped returning.

Into apologies I finally gave without adding but afterward.

Into spaces where I let my voice leave my chest at its natural volume.

Some people left.

I watched them.

A few times I ran after them.

I’m not going to lie to you.

Once or twice I caught them.

That hurt more.

So I came back.

Piece by piece.

The pride first.

Then the lies.

Then that ugly habit of hurting people before they could get close enough to hurt me.

I found old messages where I had rewritten entire histories to keep myself innocent.

Couldn’t even recognize the man typing some of them.

Could recognize the fear though.

That part held my reflection.

I deleted nothing.

Just read.

There were things I had done that no amount of self-love could make beautiful.

Good.

I had spent enough time trying to make everything beautiful.

Tonight, steam covers the bathroom glass.

I don’t wipe it.

I know what’s there.

I brush my teeth.

Wash my face.

Water runs from my chin onto my chest.

Behind me, the mirror clears slowly.

Shoulders first.

Then the neck.

Then my face.

I catch it without meaning to.

Fourteen again.

Skinny.

Shirtless.

Standing too close to the glass.

Fingers working at my face.

Pressing.

Pulling.

Looking for somewhere to begin.

For years, I thought if I ever got back here I’d know what to tell you.

About the women.

The friends.

Those rooms.

God.

Your skin.

The things people will say.

The things you’ll eventually say to yourself.

Maybe I’d put my hands on those broad shoulders and tell you none of it gets to decide who you become.

But I know you.

You’d look right through me.

So I let you grow up.

Let you send the message.

Let you sit outside that house.

Let you shrink in those rooms.

Let you lie.

Let you hurt people.

Let people hurt you.

Let you learn the difference.

The bathroom gets quiet.

When I look again, you’re gone.

Just me.

The phone rings.

A name I know.

One I used to answer before the second ring.

It shakes against the counter.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

My face lights with every vibration.

The phone stops.

Dark again.

A message appears.

You up?

I read it.

My thumb rests against the screen.

Nothing comes.

No paragraph.

No little performance of indifference.

I turn the phone facedown.

The mirror has cleared completely now.

I look up.

Something is different.

I move closer.

Then catch myself doing it.

I stop.

For years every mirror brought my head down —

just slightly.

Enough to inspect.

Enough to correct.

Enough to ask.

I straighten.

Not my shoulders.

My neck.

The light hums above me.

The man in the glass lifts with me.

No smile.

Same nose.

Same lips.

Same scar.

Same Black skin.

Mine.

I reach for the switch.

Dark.

For half a second, the glass keeps me.

Then it doesn’t.

I walk out without looking for myself again.

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END

© 2026 Jason A. Thomas. All rights reserved.