You think you know me?

You only know the version of me I let you see.

To some, I’m kind—gentle even. Someone who listens, who understands, who holds space.
To others, I’m cold. Distant. Maybe even cruel. And maybe I am. Depends on what part of me you’ve earned—or what part I had to become to survive you.

Some say I’m talented. They see sparks, passion, something that moves.
But most? They don’t see anything.
To them, I’m just noise. Background. Disposable.

I can be the warmth in the room or the one who snuffs out the light.
I don’t always choose—sometimes I just shift.

To a few, I’m artistic. Strange, but intriguing. They say I’m original. Unfiltered. A little chaotic in a beautiful way.
To others, I’m just “trying too hard.” Pretentious. A performance waiting to fail.

Some call me creative. A mind that breathes in color and bleeds it into form.
But there are also eyes—watching me like predators.
Picking apart my work. Measuring me with crooked rulers.
Waiting for the day I collapse under the weight of it all.

There are people proud of me. Quietly so. They don’t always say it, but I feel it.
And then there are those who mock me.
Turn my struggles into punchlines.
Celebrate my silence.
Wait for me to trip—just so they can say, “I knew it.”

Some are rooting for my downfall.
Not because I wronged them—
but because my rise threatens something in them they refuse to confront.

Still… there are the rare few who wait with hope.
They’re not loud. They don’t demand my attention.
But they’re there—watching with patience, believing in the version of me even I haven’t met yet.
Waiting for me to grow into myself. To rise.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because I’m not here to prove myself to everyone.
I’m not a performance. I’m not your projection.
I’m not a failure for not being who you expected.
I am a storm. A contradiction. A work in progress.

So whether you cheer for me, mock me, love me, hate me,
Whether you’re waiting for me to fly or to fall—
At least you’re watching.

And I’ll keep becoming.