What to say to people?
Say the thing you bury.
The thing you choke down
when the room’s too bright
and everyone’s smiling
like their teeth mean something.

Say:
I don’t feel safe in my own skin.
Say:
Some days, I disappear and no one notices.
Say:
I don’t know who I am when I’m not performing.

Speak the rot.
The rust.
The crawl of it all
under your ribs.

Let them see the version of you
that doesn’t dress up for approval.
Let them meet the version
that stares too long in mirrors,
looking for someone
who feels real.

Say:
I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t hurt.
Say:
I want to be held without earning it.
Say:
I want to scream until something inside me breaks open
and the light gets in.

And if they look away—
good.
Let them.
You’re not for everyone.

You’re for the ones
who don’t flinch at ruin,
who recognize the smoke
because they’ve burned too.

Say what scorches.
Say what won’t fit in a quote.
Say it shaking,
say it breathing,
say it broken—
but say it.