The Watcher

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.