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The Echo That Wears My Name

They laugh at the echo and think it is me.

But it is not.

I wind up the strings of my own voice, make it dance in the air like something alive. But I am the puppeteer—and I no longer remember the sound of silence that belongs to me.

They call me vibrant. Charming. Magnetic.
And I smile—not because they’re wrong, but because they’ve mistaken the flicker for the flame.
They see the light, never the burn.

truth is, i don’t talk. i translate.
i don’t joke. i offer.
not because i want to—but because i know how.

I wear my extroversion like a tailored coat—
flawless in fit, hollow in fabric.

Inside, I shiver where no one looks.

and the paradox is cruel: the better i become at being someone everyone can love, the further i drift from anyone who might understand me.
what is the word for being surrounded and starving?
for being applauded and erased?

maybe i am just a prism—light passes through me, gets refracted, becomes beauty.
but the prism itself remains invisible.
used.
clear.
tired.

socializing feels like climbing an endless ladder made of mirrors—each step shows me a version of myself i had to become just to keep climbing.
and yet, there is no top. only more ascent. more reflection.

i am loud so no one hears the silence inside me.
i am funny so no one asks where the sadness begins.
i am here so no one sees i left a long time ago.

and when i get home, i peel the charisma off my skin like wet clothes.
collapse into the quiet like it’s a temple.
no need to explain. no need to sparkle.
just the slow, holy work of returning to a self that speaks in whispers.

being known is not the same as being seen.
being liked is not the same as being loved.
and being able to perform joy is not the same as feeling it.

so yes, i can keep talking.

But God—just once—I want silence to feel like stillness, not surrender.

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