Jul 13
Am I playing with words… or merely playing with my tongue?
Because I can be poetic when I choose, when the rhythm of thought aligns with the rhythm of breath… and I can be careless when I do not. I can cloak the truth in velvet or let it cut, jagged and raw, leaving no trace of softness behind.
Some say we become less of what we are when we give more than what we deserve.
Perhaps. Perhaps that is only true if we hand ourselves over to those incapable of seeing us, incapable of bearing the weight of our fire. But I ask—who determines what is “deserved”? Who measures the value of a pulse, the resonance of a word, the depth of what is felt? I have given freely, and I have withheld freely, and in both, I have remained entire.
I can pretend, yes—I can pretend I care… or I can pretend I do not. I can mask my longing, cloak my indifference, tilt my smile just so, and the world would not know the difference. And yet, beneath the surface, something lingers—insistent, untamed—a reminder that even in pretense, even in withholding, I remain fiercely, irrevocably myself.
I have learned that words can be weapons or they can be wings. They can ignite or they can suffocate. They can draw someone close or push them away, and I am both the artist and the arsonist in this delicate dance. I choose when to strike, when to soothe, when to speak and when to remain silent.
And still, I wonder: am I too much, or am I enough? Am I giving too much, or simply giving what is mine to give? There are those who cannot hold the intensity of a soul unbound, who fear the reflection of their own limitations in the fire of another. To them, I am a threat. To them, my words are too sharp, my silences too heavy, my presence too complete.
I do not apologize. I do not soften for convenience, for approval, for comfort. I will not make myself small to fit the narrow shadows of another’s expectation. I am wide, I am dark, I am luminous in ways you may never see but that do not require your recognition.
So, yes—I can be poetic when I want, careless when I do not. I can pretend, with elegance or with cruelty, I can withhold or I can give. But always, in every line, every glance, every breath, I remain wholly, unmistakably myself.
And perhaps that is the most dangerous, the most exquisite thing of all.
Because I can be poetic when I choose, when the rhythm of thought aligns with the rhythm of breath… and I can be careless when I do not. I can cloak the truth in velvet or let it cut, jagged and raw, leaving no trace of softness behind.
Some say we become less of what we are when we give more than what we deserve.
Perhaps. Perhaps that is only true if we hand ourselves over to those incapable of seeing us, incapable of bearing the weight of our fire. But I ask—who determines what is “deserved”? Who measures the value of a pulse, the resonance of a word, the depth of what is felt? I have given freely, and I have withheld freely, and in both, I have remained entire.
I can pretend, yes—I can pretend I care… or I can pretend I do not. I can mask my longing, cloak my indifference, tilt my smile just so, and the world would not know the difference. And yet, beneath the surface, something lingers—insistent, untamed—a reminder that even in pretense, even in withholding, I remain fiercely, irrevocably myself.
I have learned that words can be weapons or they can be wings. They can ignite or they can suffocate. They can draw someone close or push them away, and I am both the artist and the arsonist in this delicate dance. I choose when to strike, when to soothe, when to speak and when to remain silent.
And still, I wonder: am I too much, or am I enough? Am I giving too much, or simply giving what is mine to give? There are those who cannot hold the intensity of a soul unbound, who fear the reflection of their own limitations in the fire of another. To them, I am a threat. To them, my words are too sharp, my silences too heavy, my presence too complete.
I do not apologize. I do not soften for convenience, for approval, for comfort. I will not make myself small to fit the narrow shadows of another’s expectation. I am wide, I am dark, I am luminous in ways you may never see but that do not require your recognition.
So, yes—I can be poetic when I want, careless when I do not. I can pretend, with elegance or with cruelty, I can withhold or I can give. But always, in every line, every glance, every breath, I remain wholly, unmistakably myself.
And perhaps that is the most dangerous, the most exquisite thing of all.
