I didn’t birth this voice.
It was born with me. Or maybe before.
It doesn’t speak,
but when I lie — it stares.
When I pretend — it raises a brow.
When I perform — it folds its arms and waits.
It doesn’t interrupt. It waits.
And that’s worse.
Most people get to be.
I get to be watched being.
Like every word I say passes through a courtroom
inside my own skull —
and there’s no jury,
just this relentless presence
that already knows the truth
but still makes me say it out loud.
I used to think I was just intense.
Maybe a little too emotional,
a little too self-aware.
But no — this is something else.
This is the spine that doesn’t let me bend,
even when I want to.
Even when everyone else is dancing in masks
and I just want to join in
and not care
and not know —
but I do.
This voice doesn’t let me unsee.
Not my shadows. Not others'.
Not the cracks behind the smiles.
It watches when I write,
when I bleed on the page,
when I dig into myself like a grave
I keep finding bones in.
And it never claps.
Never congratulates.
Just nods, like:
"Okay. That was honest. Continue."
It’s why I can’t connect with fakeness.
Not because I think I’m better.
But because I feel too much,
and I see too clearly.
I don’t want people’s masks.
I want their fractures.
Their real.
Even if it’s ugly. Especially if it’s ugly.
I didn’t ask for this clarity.
It feels like being skinned alive
with awareness.
But now that I have it —
I can’t trade it for comfort.
Even when I want to.
So I keep walking with this silent voice behind me,
inside me,
above me —
whatever it is.
It keeps me sharp.
Keeps me bleeding.
Keeps me writing.
Keeps me real.
Maybe that’s not so bad afterall.