Jul 13
What type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The kind you would like to hear… or the kind that would make you uncomfortable, uneasy, exposed? I wonder, do you even know what you want? Or are you only pretending, as if the act of asking excuses the fact that you will not truly listen?
Why would I give you my name, my truth, when you are not even interested in knowing it?
To speak it would be like whispering secrets into a void, only to hear them returned twisted, hollow, meaningless. It would be like telling a story you are not ready to hear, or offering an alibi you have no intention of believing.
I see through the pretense in your eyes, the subtle curl of expectation, the hunger for control disguised as curiosity. You lean closer, as if you wish to possess my words, to mold them into something you can understand—but I am not your puzzle. I am not a riddle to be solved, nor a confession to be consumed at your leisure.
Do you hear me? I will not hand you fragments of myself to satisfy your need for dominion. I am entire, and my truths—dark, jagged, untamed—are not for the taking. They are not for your interpretation, your convenience, your shallow curiosity.
Ask if you must. Speak if you must. But know this: the answers I carry are not yours to claim. They are mine. And if you cannot meet them, if you cannot bear them, then step back into the shadows from which you came. For I will not diminish myself to make you comfortable. I will not dress my defiance in tones you can digest. I will not unravel just to feed your illusions of power.
There is a darkness in me, yes, but it is not violent. It is patient. It is patient, and it waits for those who dare to see it fully, who dare to stand unafraid before it. Those who cannot will turn away, shivering in the faint light of their own limitations.
So, I ask again—what type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The answer you want? Or the answer that exists, raw and relentless, untamed by your desires, unsanitized for your comfort? Choose wisely. For the truth does not bend, does not bow, does not apologize. And if you seek it only to satisfy your curiosity, know this: it will not stay. It will slip through your fingers like smoke, leaving only the echo of what you could have understood, had you truly dared.
The kind you would like to hear… or the kind that would make you uncomfortable, uneasy, exposed? I wonder, do you even know what you want? Or are you only pretending, as if the act of asking excuses the fact that you will not truly listen?
Why would I give you my name, my truth, when you are not even interested in knowing it?
To speak it would be like whispering secrets into a void, only to hear them returned twisted, hollow, meaningless. It would be like telling a story you are not ready to hear, or offering an alibi you have no intention of believing.
I see through the pretense in your eyes, the subtle curl of expectation, the hunger for control disguised as curiosity. You lean closer, as if you wish to possess my words, to mold them into something you can understand—but I am not your puzzle. I am not a riddle to be solved, nor a confession to be consumed at your leisure.
Do you hear me? I will not hand you fragments of myself to satisfy your need for dominion. I am entire, and my truths—dark, jagged, untamed—are not for the taking. They are not for your interpretation, your convenience, your shallow curiosity.
Ask if you must. Speak if you must. But know this: the answers I carry are not yours to claim. They are mine. And if you cannot meet them, if you cannot bear them, then step back into the shadows from which you came. For I will not diminish myself to make you comfortable. I will not dress my defiance in tones you can digest. I will not unravel just to feed your illusions of power.
There is a darkness in me, yes, but it is not violent. It is patient. It is patient, and it waits for those who dare to see it fully, who dare to stand unafraid before it. Those who cannot will turn away, shivering in the faint light of their own limitations.
So, I ask again—what type of answer would you expect me to give you?
The answer you want? Or the answer that exists, raw and relentless, untamed by your desires, unsanitized for your comfort? Choose wisely. For the truth does not bend, does not bow, does not apologize. And if you seek it only to satisfy your curiosity, know this: it will not stay. It will slip through your fingers like smoke, leaving only the echo of what you could have understood, had you truly dared.
