It waits until I’m almost steady.
Not at rock bottom ~
that’s too predictable.
It prefers the moment I reach for light
with both hands.
That’s when it speaks.
“Cute,”
it coos,
“You really thought clarity made you real.”
It doesn’t shout.
It purrs,
low and syrupy,
like a lullaby laced with glass.
It knows every version of me;
the ones I buried to be digestible.
It built this mind like a haunted house
and hands me the key every time I dare to leave.
“You always did mistake coherence for truth,”
it says,
dragging its nails along the walls of my thoughts.
“So good at talking. So bad at existing.”
I flinch.
It recites memories I forgot to be ashamed of.
Plays tapes I didn’t know I recorded.
Slows down the faces, the pauses,
the ones who humored me and didn’t mean it.
“Look at them smile. Look at you, lapping it up.”
It paces.
It prowls.
It pulls up a chair when I sit with someone and dare to feel seen.
Leans in and whispers,
“They’re just being kind. You’re not that hard to pity.”
It keeps me tense.
It’s not a villain.
It’s a roommate.
It knows my schedule, my preferences, my tells.
It trims my self-trust like dead ends from hair.
Efficient.
Unemotional.
Necessary.
And when I resist ~
when I say No, I felt that, I meant that,
it doesn’t argue.
It just tilts its head and says,
“You really do crave applause for surviving, don’t you?”
Then it goes quiet,
knowing I’ll crawl back
the second I start to question
what’s mine
and what’s performance.
Because between the two of us,
only one of us ever sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.
This is the voice that doesn’t yell - it purrs. The one that arrives not in crisis, but in clarity. It’s the part of me that keeps the lights dimmed just enough to make doubt look like insight. It isn’t dramatic. It’s persuasive. And it’s lived in my head long enough to sound like the truth.
