ayeeee ayyyyyyy (wrote this)

I know how to become what you need.
I can read the room, read your body, read the words you’re not saying.
I can tune my timing, my tone, my presence so well that you feel seen, held, understood.
You relax because I’ve adjusted to you.
But there’s a cost.
While I’m bending, I’m also measuring.
I’m taking notes on what you miss, where you’re sloppy with truth, where you ignore the details that matter to me.
I don’t always tell you what I see; I file it away.
I’ll say it’s fine.
I’ll say I understand.
I’ll say I’m easy.
Underneath, I’m tracking everything.
I over‑give, over‑adapt, over‑feel you.
And then I start to pull away inside, even while I’m still physically here.
I become the quiet examiner, the one who knows more than she says.
Sometimes I fall in love with your potential, your symbolism, the story of us.
I stay for the myth even when the daily reality doesn’t feed me.
I tell myself this is destiny, this is karmic, this is important.
It’s easier to analyze the relationship than to admit:
I’m hurt.
I’m bored.
I’m scared.
I want more.
Instead of speaking the simple thing, I make it complicated.
I turn feelings into theories, chemistry into lessons, disappointment into fate.
I keep things in “maybe,” in “almost,” in “it’s complicated,” because clarity would force a choice.
I know how to disappear without leaving.
I can still dance with you, still text you, still orbit the same scene,
while my heart has already stepped three paces back.
You’ll feel it before you can name it.
You’ll feel tested but not told the rules.
You’ll feel like there was a standard you failed but never saw.
This is my shadow:
I let your needs set the shape of us, then judge you for not feeling me.
I see you more clearly than I let you see me.
I use my sensitivity to stay safe instead of to get honest.
And underneath all of it is something simple:
I am afraid that if I show you my full, specific, changing self—
what I actually need, what I actually want, what no longer works—
you will decide I am too much, too complicated, too inconsistent.
So I split: soft on the outside, sharp on the inside.
Adaptable on the surface, rigid in my private conclusions.
Available in the scene, unavailable in the places that would make us real.
My work now is different.
To say the small, true sentence before the big story.
To let you see where I stand, even if it risks losing you.
To stay in one conversation long enough that I don’t have to hold the whole relationship in my head, alone.
To let my sensitivity be an open channel, not a hidden courtroom.