the back of my neck… prickly. like i’m about to be watched. what’s it scared of, i asked. not the watcher… but what they’ll see. the mess. the trying. the almost-but-not-quite. the way i still flinch at a raised voice, even my own. the way kindness still feels like a trick, like someone’s setting me up for something. the way i don’t trust… softness. the way it will always choose to brace. to tighten. to guard. what would they SEE?