You don’t want the real me. You want the _edited draft._ The highlight reel, the candle-lit version, the one who answers politely and knows when to laugh. You want soft-spoken storms, not the downpour. You want the house after it's cleaned, not the mess it took to get there. You don’t want the me that thinks too loud and feels too fast. The one who says what she means _before_ she filters it into something safe. You want my “I’m fine,” but not the hours it took to fake it. You want my smile, but not the teeth behind it. Not the bite. Not the blood. You say you want honesty, but flinch when I give it teeth. Say, “damn, that’s deep,” like you weren’t drowning in the shallow end. Like you didn’t ask for this. You don’t want real. Real is uncomfortable. Real doesn’t match your vibe. Real ruins dinner parties and group chats with truths no one knows how to digest. Real is me calling you out without raising my voice. Me walking away without slamming the door. Me not explaining why because I don’t owe you that anymore. You say, _“You’ve changed.”_ And I say, _“I unlearned how to bend just to fit inside your comfort.”_ You don’t want the real me. But she’s here now. Unpacking. Making noise. And this time— she’s staying.