Judge

They see me, but not really. A glance. A smirk. A whisper— "Look at her." And that’s all it takes. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. Truth isn’t the point. The point is sharp, and it’s aimed at me. She’s too this. She’s too that. She’s nothing. She’s everything wrong. They don’t stop to think— why would they? Judging is easy, like breathing, like scratching an itch. You don’t plan it. You just do it. Maybe I laughed too loud. Maybe I didn’t laugh at all. Maybe my shirt’s too tight. Maybe my face looks tired. Maybe I’m just there, existing, and that’s enough for them to decide: I’m wrong. It’s not about me. It never was. They judge because they’re bored, because they’re scared, because it makes them feel lighter to dump their weight onto me. But it sticks. Their words, their looks, their stupid little laughs. They stick to my skin like burrs in the grass, prickling, digging in. And the worst part? I start wondering if they’re right. I check the mirror, check my smile, check my soul— is it all too much? Is it not enough? What am I doing wrong? But then I remember— they don’t know me. Not the real me. Not the girl who cries when the world’s asleep. Not the girl who dreams too big and loves too hard. Not the girl who’s still figuring out how to stand tall while they throw stones. They judge because it’s easy. But being me? That’s hard. And I’d rather be me— messy, loud, quiet, strong, weak— than be the one pointing the finger.