Naima

❤️

❤️

Try something else on me. Gaslight me. Tell me what I see isn’t real. I might even agree. You’re so right. How could I have been so very stupid? Thank you for correcting me. What happens when I accept everything you tell me? How far does it go? When arrogance takes the lead. Information so very juicy.

You think you’ve caught it, labeled it, held it still. But it narrows walls rising, your focus closing in. Step back. Zoom out one layer, then another. It changes. It was never that single name. You were standing too close to see the whole thing. — you said this and it is for a moment small enough for your label then it’s not it keeps going past the edge you drew around it around it around it until the line means nothing step back once more you weren’t seeing it you were standing inside it

Writers love to write. It hardly matters what. Everyone wants to be heard, to see their thoughts mirrored, their words affirmed. Proof of existence grows bigger with an audience. Is it meaning? Or truth? Is it attention or transgression? Why does a writer write? What are they trying to take? What are they trying to give? How do they place themselves against you, against the world? Which parts feel thin? Which repeat too loudly? What leans strangely toward the dark?

What are words, really ink pretending to be thought, shapes we trust because they almost seal. When I write, what do you think I mean? Do you hear me, or only the rhythm of something that sounds like truth? Read closer past the clean edges. Does anything hold, or does it slip through the spaces I leave? This is the hard part knowing something is wrong, accepting it anyway polishing the lie until it gleams. Write it. Shape it. Turn away at the right moment. Don’t let it show. Give the rot a metaphor. Call it beauty and mean it.

What remains when everything else is taken? What remains when no eyes are left to see? What do you see when only your own eyes are watching? What are you in that silence? What do you feel without a witness? How much of you was hidden just because someone else was looking?

I remember things too well especially conflict faces, tones, the subtle things. Lately I’ve been stuck on a mismatch a face that looks honest, eyes that don’t flinch, paired with bloody hands. When I confront it, there’s confusion. They hesitate, as if the memory doesn’t fit inside them. And for a second I almost believe them. Because the face is steady. Because doubt is contagious. But if you look closely, you’ll see guilt hidden underneath hidden even from itself. How does someone not know what they’ve done? How does guilt exist without admission? It’s strange how easily surfaces persuade, how quickly trust fills the gaps. And how, in that moment, reality doesn’t break it just starts to blur.

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