If I Let The World Know Me

If I let the world know me—
really know me—
would the air feel different on my skin?
Would I breathe without bracing,
without the quiet, careful pause
before I speak, before I step,
before I let myself exist?

I wonder what it’s like to be unhidden,
to wake up each morning
and wear nothing but truth—
no masks, no armor,
no careful stitching of a version
I think they want to see.

If I let the world know me,
would I stop holding my breath
every time love reached for me?
Would I stop flinching at kindness,
stop questioning warmth,
stop pulling back the moment
someone got too close?

There is a version of me,
somewhere beneath the quiet,
beneath the carefully built walls,
who does not shrink herself
to fit into safe spaces.
She does not hesitate,
does not second-guess.
She does not fear the weight of her own voice.

But I have spent a lifetime fortifying—
brick by brick,
learning the art of self-preservation,
of withholding before I am asked,
of offering only what cannot be broken.

And yet—
there is a longing in me,
a quiet, restless ache
to be known,
to be understood
without having to explain myself first.

If I let the world know me,
would I finally know myself, too?

Would I finally,
finally,
be free?