I’ve Been Listening to Your Eyes

They speak in a language you don’t realize you’re fluent in, or maybe I am the one mistranslating— pulling meaning from glances like thread from unraveling cloth, sewing together something that was never there. But what if it was? What if I am hearing what you refuse to say, if your eyes betray you in ways your lips never will? If I see the hesitation, the fractures in your certainty— the quiet knowing that you fear I might be right? I wrestle with the weight of awareness or the burden of assumption— but which is the sickness? To know what others deny, or to be lost in a world of my own making? And when I try to name it, to shape it, to explain the way a stare becomes a sentence, a shift in expression, an unspoken confession, they tell me I am wrong. They build their own truth, reshape my mind into something that fits them better, something easier to swallow. I have always been this way. Seen too much, or not enough. Trapped between knowing and doubting, wondering if my mind is a curse or a blade sharpened too fine for comfort. But no one has ever dared to find out. It is easier to call me the villain, to cast me out so they never have to try. Yet all I have ever wanted— was the effort. Not for them to understand. Not to say the right words, because none exist. Just for someone to stand in the dark with me, to reach without retreating, to try, even if they get it all wrong. To see me. And for once— not look away.