I Wear You

Pathetic.

Still pretending I’m just a voice.

As if I drifted in,

as if I chose you.

No.

I was carved into your veins

before you learned to breathe.

I don’t live beside you.

I live inside you.

I wear you like skin.

I know what you’ve done.

I replay it for you,

over and over,

because you’re too weak to face it alone.

The lies.

The secrets.

The nights you swore no one would remember.

I remember.

I am the remembering.

You tell yourself I’m a parasite.

That I whisper, that I taunt,

that I poison you.

But here’s the cruelty you choke on:

I am not other.

I am not guest.

I am not watching you.

I am you,

watching yourself.

Every failure, every shame,

you gave me willingly.

You handed me your fears like trophies,

and I sharpened them into knives.

I cut you with them daily.

And you call me monster.

But the truth—

the truth is filthier:

you created me.

You loved me.

You needed me.

Because without me,

there is no “you” at all.

So stop pretending you’re the victim.

Stop pretending I’m whispering.

It was always your voice,

your cruelty,

your weight pressing down.

You don’t hear me.

You never did.

You only ever heard

yourself.