It Has No Name
There is something living in me.
Not a ghost. Not a spirit. Not a sickness I can treat or a wound I can bandage.
It was born when I was small—maybe five, maybe earlier. And though it’s aged with me, it never grew up.
I never gave it a name. I won’t. Naming things gives them shape. Gives them power. I’ve stripped it of its voice. It does not speak—not anymore. And I’ve killed its will—at least, I try to tell myself that I have.
But it still lives. It lingers. Not in the open, but in the spaces between: in the corners of the room, in the silence between words, in the mirror I can’t look at too long.
I see it in others, too. In the pain behind a friend’s smile. In my sister’s distant stare. In the way my brother flinches when he's touched. Once, I saw it in my daughter’s eyes—and that’s when the terror truly began.
This thing—it’s older than language. Older than religion. Older than guilt.
It lives in the marrow of our species, I think. Passed down. Hidden. Inherited like a curse we pretend isn't real.
Men don’t talk about it. We weren’t allowed to. We’re told we’re strong. That we should be grateful it “wasn’t worse.”
That if it hurt us, maybe we weren’t men at all.
But it did hurt. And it does hurt. Still.
Some people give it a name— Uncle. Teacher. Babysitter.
Friend. Dad. Mom. Even their own reflection.
I don’t.
Because to name it is to welcome it. And I want it buried.
Gone. Dead.
I want people to think I’m normal. To believe the mask is my face. To never guess what crawls behind my eyes when the room is dark.
But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if everyone wears a mask like mine. If everyone’s monster walks beside them, quietly, patiently, just out of view.
And I wonder— not if I’m broken, but if I’m just like everyone else… and we’re all just pretending.