versions

Part I – The Shatter
There are versions of me
scattered across years like broken mirrors.
Some I remember.
Some I only know by the way people talk about them.
Some I invented
because the truth was too heavy to carry.
I don’t know which one was real.
Or if any of them were.
Maybe all of them were masks.
Maybe none of them were.
I told lies.
At first to others.
Then to myself.
Then I told them so well
they started to feel like truth.
Now I can’t find the bottom.
I dig and dig
but every layer I peel back
just leads to another I don’t recognize.
And I start to wonder—
was I always like this?
Or did I break something
and forget where I left the pieces?
There’s a fear that creeps in sometimes—
quiet, patient,
the kind of fear that doesn’t shout,
just waits.
It whispers:
what if this is your fault?
What if you built the wall and lost the door?
I want to say that’s not true.
That I was a kid,
or scared,
or hurt.
That I had no choice.
But I don’t know anymore.
I buried so deep,
the map is gone.
And maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe all that matters
is now.
Is the digging.
Is the trying.
Even if I never find the whole truth—
maybe finding some of it
is enough.
---
Part II – The Hollow and the Child
Sometimes I sit in silence
and wonder if I ever really knew me at all.
Not the me people see—
the one who says “I’m good” with a tired smile,
who shows up, nods along,
laughs at the right parts.
No, I mean me.
The one beneath all that.
And I get scared.
Not of what I’ll find,
but that I won’t find anything.
That I scraped so much of myself away
just trying to survive
that now there’s nothing left
but a shell.
An outline.
A memory of someone
I might’ve been.
There are things I buried so deep
they don’t even feel real anymore.
Pain I never faced.
Shame I never spoke.
Moments that flash like static in the back of my mind—
just enough to haunt me,
not enough to hold.
I was just a lonely, weird kid.
Always watching from the edge,
trying to read the room,
trying to mimic what everyone else seemed to just be.
So I started building masks.
One for the funny version of me.
One for the quiet, thoughtful one.
One for the kid who could be cool if he tried hard enough.
I wore them like clothes—changing outfits
until I got good at guessing
what people wanted me to be.
And it worked.
Sort of.
I found people.
I found places to stand.
But I never really found me.
Because I left that kid behind somewhere.
The one who didn’t know how to belong
but still had something real inside.
Sometimes I catch my reflection
and I don’t recognize the eyes looking back.
Because who am I
when no one else is watching?
Who am I when I’m not trying to be something
for someone?
There’s a sound I hear sometimes—
like something under ice,
banging to be let out.
I think it’s him.
That weird kid.
The one who still looked at the world
with wonder
instead of calculation.
And maybe I locked him away.
Maybe I turned the key
and said, “Stay gone.”
But now,
I want to go back.
Not to erase anything—
just to remember.
To find him,
sit beside him,
awkward, quiet, unsure,
and say:
You didn’t have to change so much.
You were already enough.
You’re not broken for being different.
You’re not less for being alone.
You were never wrong
for feeling too much
or too little
or just not the same.
I want to dig through the years of pretending
and pull him out,
dust him off,
and maybe—just maybe—
learn how to feel again
without needing an audience.
Without needing a script.
Because I think I miss him.
Not the masks.
Not the act.
Just him.
---
Part III – The Start of Something Real
I don’t know how to heal.
I don’t even know where the path begins.
But I think maybe it’s not about some big moment,
some cinematic breakthrough.
Maybe it’s just this—
feeling something,
even if it’s only for a second.
Maybe healing doesn’t roar.
Maybe it whispers.
“Hey… I’m still here.”
I still wear the masks sometimes.
They’re comfortable.
Familiar.
They’ve kept me safe for years.
But now I can feel the edges of them cutting into me.
Like they don’t fit right anymore.
Like I’ve grown underneath them
without realizing.
There are moments now—
small, strange moments—
where I don’t act.
I don’t filter.
I just am.
And it feels… terrifying.
And freeing.
And fragile.
Like a newborn truth
that could shatter if I breathe too hard.
I still question everything.
I still wonder if I’m being genuine,
or just well-rehearsed.
But sometimes—
just sometimes—
I catch a flicker in the mirror
that feels like me.
Not the best version.
Not the cool one,
or the calm one,
or the version who always says the right thing.
Just the real one.
Raw.
Unsteady.
But present.
And I think that’s enough for now.
Not being whole.
Not being healed.
Just being in it.
Being with myself
instead of running from me.
I still miss the kid I used to be.
But maybe I can carry him forward
instead of leaving him behind.
Maybe I can be the person
he was always hoping someone else would be.
Not perfect.
Not fearless.
Just real.
Just trying.
That’s where I’ll start.
Not with answers.
Not with clarity.
But with honesty.
And maybe, with time,
honesty becomes light.
And the masks start to fall.
And I begin to remember
what it feels like
to be me.
---
Part IV – The Ones I Left and the One I'm Becoming
I think I’m grieving someone
I never really knew.
The version of me
that could’ve existed
if I hadn’t been so scared
of not being enough.
Not broken—just strange.
Just soft.
Just needing too much
in a world that told me not to.
I buried him.
Not because he was weak,
but because I didn’t think he’d be wanted.
So I covered him in silence.
In jokes.
In masks that smiled wide
and fit tight.
And it worked.
I was liked.
I fit in rooms I used to hide from.
But God, I lost something doing that.
I lost him.
The quiet one.
The honest one.
Now I’m standing in the ruins
of who I thought I had to be,
and it’s so damn quiet here.
Not peaceful—just empty.
Like a stage after the audience leaves,
and the lights go down,
and there’s no applause
because the act never really mattered.
I want to go back for him.
Kneel in the dirt.
Cut my hands on the lies.
Pull him out.
And say:
“I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry I made you disappear.
I’m sorry I believed you were too much,
or not enough,
or just… wrong.
You weren’t wrong.
You were real.
And I’ve missed you more than I know how to say.
I’m not fixed.
I may never be.
But I’m not faking this part.
This isn’t a victory speech.
There’s no fireworks.
No neat conclusion.
No sudden clarity like the movies show.
But I’m still here.
And that counts for something.
I spent years becoming
what I thought would be accepted.
Versions stitched from silence and mimicry,
built to blend in,
to disappear just enough
to be allowed.
But something in me broke the spell.
Not loud—just a crack.
A whisper that said:
“Come back.”
Maybe this is what becoming really looks like—
not a transformation,
but a slow remembering.
Like waking up in pieces.
Like learning your name again
after years of answering to someone else’s.
Some days, the masks still call to me.
Some days, I wear them out of habit.
Some days, I miss the numbness
because it made the noise quieter.
But I don’t want silence anymore
if it means I have to disappear to get it.
I want to feel.
Even if it aches.
Even if it’s awkward.
Even if I cry in the dark
and no one knows why.
I want to rebuild—
not as the best version,
not the cleanest,
not the strongest,
but the truest.
I want to make space for the weird kid,
the one who asked too many questions,
who felt too deeply,
who never quite fit in—
because maybe he was never meant to.
Maybe I wasn’t broken.
Maybe I was just different.
And maybe that’s not a curse.
Maybe it’s a key.
I may never recover every piece I lost,
but I will honor the ones I find.
I will give them room to breathe,
to grow,
to be loved.
Because I am not the masks.
Not the numbness.
Not the fear.
I am the one who survived them.
The one who stayed.
The one who’s still here,
finally beginning
to feel like home.
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