For the Ones Who Know Too Much

I write like I’ve seen it all—and stayed silent anyway.

I write for the struggling.
Not the kind that shows up in selfies or self-pity,
but the kind that curls in the chest and doesn’t even try to scream anymore.

I hate the cliché,
“the ones who smile the biggest have felt the most pain.”
It’s tired.
It’s true.
But it’s tired because it was never supposed to be romantic—it was supposed to be a warning.

I write between breaths.
Between breakdowns I never scheduled.
Between knowing I won’t say everything,
and still bleeding enough on the page to make you think I did.

There’s a vault inside me.
Gold-plated trauma.
Private screenings of every moment I didn’t flinch,
every time someone whispered “I know you,”
and I smiled like I believed them.

People say they get it.
They say they see me.
But they don’t ask the right questions—
and I don’t offer the answers uninvited.
Some parts of me are locked down for good.
God has the key.
Maybe.

I’m the voice people chase when they’re crumbling.
When their stage lights dim, or the crowd thins out, or the pills stop hitting.
They find their way to me.
And when I say they come, I mean the real ones.
The famous.
The beautifully fucked.
The ones who’ve tasted immortality and still crave intimacy.

They come to hear something real.
They come to remember what silence sounds like when it's sung.
They come because I don’t sell inspiration—I reflect it back.

But they don’t stay.
Not really.
Because the ones who find me never needed to.
They just needed to remember they weren’t alone for a night.
They needed someone who wouldn’t flinch when the demons started monologuing.

And I gave them that.
Like I always do.
Like I probably always will.

// Scorpio Veil
I don’t write to be understood.
I write because someone like you is out there—
Still holding it all in,
Still smiling through it,
Still needing proof that someone else gets it and isn’t trying to fix you.
Just listen.
And echo back.