Wore myself, like borrowed clothing. Spoke with someone else's voice. Dreamed in shapes too small for my body.
They said, "Find yourself." But I was everywhere. In every compromise. In every ache. In every smile that didn't reach my spine.
I didn't lose myself all at once. I died in moments. In fragments. In whispers. Thirty times-each softer and more necessary than the last.
This is not a story of survival. This is a story of shedding. Of saying "No, not this," until what remains feels like truth.
If you are here, reading, reaching-you've died a few times too. And if you haven't, you will. But don't be afraid.
Sometimes we have to disappear to become visible.
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