If I Told You the Truth About Me

If I Told You the Truth About Me

By [waseem khan]

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d stop seeing the mask I wear

as my real face.

You’d stop calling me strong

and start wondering

how many pieces I’ve splintered into

when no one’s watching.

If I told you the truth about me,

I’d begin with this:

I am not always kind.

Sometimes my kindness is armor,

sometimes it’s currency,

sometimes it’s silence when I should have screamed.

I bite my tongue so often

I’ve forgotten the taste of my own voice.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d know that I am lonely.

Not the kind you fix with company,

but the kind that sits in your bones,

even in crowds,

even in love,

even in prayer.

If I told you the truth about me,

I would confess that I miss people

who were never good to me.

That I still hope for apologies

I know will never come.

And that I forgive people

who don't even remember what they did.

If I told you the truth about me,

I would say:

I am terrified of success—

not because I doubt I can reach it,

but because I’m scared I’ll lose it

and prove everyone right

about how temporary I am.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d learn I’ve been wearing shame

like perfume—

invisible,

but choking.

You’d see how I decorate my fears

with fake confidence,

like a child putting glitter on a wound

and pretending it’s a star.

If I told you the truth about me,

I’d tell you I’ve lied.

Not to be cruel.

Just to survive.

Like when I said I was okay.

Like when I said “it’s nothing.”

Like when I smiled and it was

absolutely,

entirely,

not okay.

If I told you the truth about me,

I’d have to admit

that I don’t know what love really means.

I’ve given it like a gift

and watched people toss it away

like wrapping paper.

I’ve received it

only to wonder what strings were attached.

I don’t trust it.

Not fully.

Not yet.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d know that I am both

the hero and the villain of my own life.

I’ve broken promises

to others

and worse—

to myself.

I’ve let versions of me die

just to be liked by people

I didn’t even respect.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d find out I sometimes dream

of disappearing.

Not out of sorrow—

but because silence feels

like peace.

Because anonymity

feels like freedom.

Because being seen

feels like exposure.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d know that I believe in magic,

but not in myself.

That I believe in others,

but not that they believe in me.

That I believe in healing,

but not that I deserve it.

If I told you the truth about me,

you’d see the contradiction—

how I crave closeness

but build walls higher than heaven.

How I ache for connection

but ghost my own emotions.

How I want to be known

but fear being understood.

If I told you the truth about me,

I’d finally say this:

I am still here.

Still learning.

Still unfolding.

Still broken, yes,

but not ruined.

Still reaching out

even when I think I shouldn't.

If I told you the truth about me,

you might not love me more.

But at least you'd love

someone real.

Someone raw.

Someone who has carried silence

like a second skin—

and is finally

ready

to peel it back.