writing
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I stood there above your ghost, watching for months as the demons ravaged your body. Alone inside your own head, trying to figure out whether you were listening to the voices or becoming one of them. Tapping on the door three times before you turned the lights out, like a ritual, like superstition was the…
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They think survival is loud.But the ones who last learned how to whisper to their own limits. They lift weights like they are carrying tomorrow on their back.They eat like the body is a temple and a battlefield at the same time.They don’t announce what they’re building because blueprints collapse when too many eyes breathe…
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Life does not forget.It waits. It waits in the mouths that doubted you.In the eyes that studied your cracks like proof.In the quiet certainty of people who decided who you werebefore you finished becoming. They said you were unstable.Too much.Too emotional.Too intense.Too sensitive.Too hard to hold. They mistook pressure for personality.They mistook survival for dysfunction.…
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This was never about you.That’s the first lie expectation tells so it can keep breathing. Because somehow it was always about you.Not you as you imagine yourself, but you as you insist on being seen. I said what I said.And I meant what you thought.That’s where expectation lives, in the quiet space where meaning mutates…
