I’m curious about the version of me that lives beneath the one everyone sees. The one who doesn’t measure her words. Who doesn’t rehearse her smiles or dilute her desire to stay digestible.

What would I do if no one was watching? If there were no eyes to judge, no mirrors echoing what I’m supposed to be. Would I still tiptoe around my hunger? Would I still pretend silence is strength or that restraint is some kind of integrity?

I think I’d say the things I only ever write.Touch what I’ve denied myself for far too long. Taste the sweetness of being too much, too loud, too soft, too wild — all at once.

I would kiss slowly, laugh loudly, and dance naked, fully embracing my contradictions.

I wonder what I would write if I stopped trying to sound wise, poetic, or composed. If I let the chaos spill out without tidying it up for the reader. Would it still be beautiful, or just honest? Would I still be afraid of being seen if I stopped hiding?

I’m curious about who I would be if I had never learned shame. What if no one had ever taught me to shrink, to apologize, to cross my legs, or to restrain my voice?

If I hadn’t been rewarded for being good, quiet, polite, and controlled, would I still be loved or would I finally be free?

That’s what I’m curious about: the unfiltered, unscripted, and undesigned self.

The part of me that doesn’t merely haunt the page also aches to experience life.

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