What's Wrong

What's Wrong With Him?

“He makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why. It’s not that he’s rude. I guess he’s polite, even careful with his words. But there’s something… off. Like he sees through everything I say and chooses not to correct me. It’s judgment without accusation and he instigates that shit. I hate it.”

“He doesn’t laugh right. Or maybe he does, but it feels like he’s laughing at a joke I didn’t hear. Or at something inside me I didn’t mean to show.”

“He’s intense. But not the good kind. The kind where you feel like if you slip, even a little, he’ll notice. And he’ll remember. You can’t even apologize because he makes you feel like he really doesn’t care. And that’s worse.”

“He listens too closely. Like he’s collecting data for something that doesn’t exist yet.”

“Dude is an unhinged nihilist, man. Lowkey depressing as fuck. I don’t know what it is because he’s a funny dude and pretty chill. It’s just something about when he locks in like that. I don’t know about that nigga…”

“He makes me feel fake. Like the person I am around him isn’t the person I want to be. But somehow, it’s the real one. The unguarded one. That’s not fair. Why should he get that from me?”

“He’s not broken, but he is dangerous. Not violent… just like he’s always on the brink. Like if you get too close, you’ll have to answer for all the shit you’ve let slide in life.”

“He told me once… well, not told me, just implied that forgiveness isn’t always holy. Sometimes it’s just performance. And I realized I’d been forgiving myself for things I never admitted doing.”

What's Wrong With Me.

What's wrong with me is that I let you look.
Even knowing what you'd do with it.
I didn't hide the fracture—
I framed it for you.
Held it high and steady so you'd have no excuse to miss it.

What's wrong with me is that I gave you realness
in a world that only knows how to package performance.
I let you see something genuine.
And I watched you retreat from it like a snake from a flame.
Not because it burned you.
But because you'd grown so used to the cold.

What's wrong with me is I didn't judge you for it.
Didn't name you fake or call you coward.
I blamed myself
for entertaining the Lie we both agreed to live in.
So I let the tension sit between us
like a wound we both refuse to clean.

What's wrong with me is I fucked around and hoped.
Not that you'd love me.
Not that you'd understand.
Just that, for one moment,
you'd stay.
Stay in the tension.
Stay in the not-knowing.
Stay long enough to realize it wasn't about me at all.
Stay long enough to see your stagnation.

What's wrong with me is that I've seen too much to play dumb,
felt too much to pretend it doesn't matter,
and lived too long in exile to ask you to come with me.

What's wrong with me is that I still showed up.
Even when I knew you wouldn't.

And now I'm not waiting.
Not for closure.
Not for recognition.
Not even for peace.

What's wrong with me?
I refuse to wear your story just to make mine less offensive.
And that means I'll walk alone.
But at least I'll know the ground beneath me is real.