the switch

to be or not to be?--dissonance between who we are and who we are taught to be

in a room full of unfamiliar faces—
it happens.
my voice softens, lifts
just slightly higher than usual.
a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes
but lands where it needs to.
I’ve learned how to seem
open.

the switch—
between ease and effort,
between how I speak
and how I should speak
to be taken seriously.
because god forbid I sound too casual—
too comfortable—
they might think I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I’ve never understood that—
how the way you speak
becomes the proof of what you know.
as if polished language
equals polished thought.
as if depth needs a certain accent
or a well-placed metaphor
to mean anything.

like maybe English isn’t where
someone’s sharpest thoughts live.
or maybe some people just think
more in rhythm than in rules.

and the switch starts early.
at eighteen—
suddenly, you’re an adult.
just like that.
a new label stamped on your forehead
like you’ve earned it.
as if age alone means
you’re now qualified
to choose your whole future.
as if breakfast
and what to wear
should no longer be the hardest parts of your day.

and it’s not just me.
i see it in boys too—
taught to deepen their voices,
puff their chests,
stretch themselves wide
just to be allowed to take up space.
to be read as enough.
performance passed off as power.
but only when it’s rigid.
they get to breathe
only behind closed doors.
softness becomes a secret
they keep even from themselves.

and if you’re in the closet—
the switch becomes your shadow.
you don’t just change your tone,
you change your self.
edit your laugh,
your walk,
your references.
rewrite your story in real time
to keep the peace,
to stay invited,
to stay safe.

you start to live in the in-between—
who you are
and who you’re playing.
become a character
you didn’t audition for,
but felt obligated to perfect.
one slip,
and you’re out.
not just out—
but othered.
maybe ignored,
maybe hated,
maybe just…
left behind.

and no one sees
how heavy it is
to constantly shapeshift.
how exhausting it is
to monitor every word, every look,
to rehearse every version of yourself
just to make it through a conversation.

and still—
people judge.
like if you don’t listen to jazz
or dig through obscure sets
in the depths of the internet,
you’re uncultured.

as if taste
were a measure of worth.
as if knowing who produced the vinyl
makes you better
than the girl who just likes
what feels good.

but at least sometimes,
we wake up from the haze.
we step outside the act,
look at who we’ve been handing ourselves to—
and say no.

we finally agree
to just be.
take it or leave it.
that’s when we find
something truer.