whoami^2 #

through days that blur into months and years, i keep asking myself— who the fuck am i? this mask i wear clings like second skin, but beneath it, there’s nothing i can name, just echoes of someone i maybe used to be. am i cruel at my core, some quiet, scheming bastard? or am i just a soft-hearted fool getting dragged through the dirt by a world that doesn’t care? whoever i was—whatever i was— it’s long gone, buried deep, like a body no one bothered to mourn. some call me a friend, an easy smile, a safe space for them to talk about things. others see nothing but chaos, a walking mess they’d rather avoid. and then there are those who swear i’m poison in human form, a venomous thing wrapped in polite small talk. so i sit here, peeling away at myself, layer by miserable layer, only to find more nothing underneath. the truth feels like some cruel joke, always just out of reach, a ghost i’m too tired to chase anymore. when night falls, it only gets worse— the stars are just cold, distant pricks of light, useless, mocking, while the questions grow louder in my head. what if there’s no “me” to uncover? what if i’ve always been this blank space, filled with other people’s projections and my own half-hearted attempts at identity? maybe one day i’ll have the guts to rip it all off—every mask, every lie— and stand there bare, whatever that means. but maybe it’s easier to keep hiding, to let the masks do the work, until there’s nothing left of me to care.