The Weight

There is some painful space between what I know and what they see. It’s always the same thing, I stand bare, and still they dress me in clothes that fit their version of me. They take my truth and return it stained with suspicion, marked with their stories, wrapped in their comfortable lies.

I chose to show my skin, every time. Each word I speak I lay down like an offering, hoping it might bridge the distance from me to them. But it never survives. What feels like gold in me hardens into lead in their hands. My honesty becomes their strategy. My vulnerability becomes their weapon. The gift I give comes back as accusation.

And then the questions rise inside me. Am I doing this myself? Do I somehow perform my honesty wrong? Is there a desperation in my voice that bends truth into manipulation? Am I even telling the truth at all? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know.

Maybe this is the price of living without disguise. Maybe doubt is not proof that I am false, but the shadow of wanting too much to be seen. Maybe truth collapses the second it begs for understanding.

There is a loneliness in holding what no one else can feel. They can hear my words, but they cannot touch their weight, their texture, their gravity. So they fill my silence with their own stories, their fears, their easy explanations.

But does it matter? If truth is whole in me, why do I still crave witness? Why do I ache for someone to carry even a fraction of what I know? I tell myself truth should be enough. But the hunger still burns. To exist is not enough. To be known, that is the wound.

Maybe the tragedy is not their misunderstanding, but my hope that they could ever understand. My begging for recognition every time I lay myself bare. Maybe the wanting itself poisons truth. Maybe the moment I long to be seen, my words rot into performance in their eyes, my honesty folds into a plea.

To be understood is rare. To be loved without being known is common. To keep speaking truth even when it falls on deaf ears, that is courage.

And in the end, truth remains mine alone. Between my intention and their interpretation lies a distance no bridge will ever cross. I could keep tearing my skin open in the name of honesty, but what for? They do not want truth. They only want what feeds them, what fits them, what uses me until I am emptied.

So let them have their versions. Let them choke on their own stories. I will not beg to be seen anymore. I will not keep offering myself to hands that only twist. I give up