I’ve been erasing myself so carefully that sometimes I forget what I used to look like. No big exits, no loud breakdowns, no calls for attention. Just a quiet, methodical folding of my edges, constantly muting the parts of me that feel too much, want too much, and risk being seen. I’ve learned to shrink in plain sight, to survive in a world that won’t pause if I vanish completely. Every thought I bury, every reaction I soften, every piece of myself I tuck away is intentional. Every invisible cut, every silent scar, is my armour.
No one sees it. No one cares. Let them think I’m small, harmless, fragile. I’m still here—sharper, colder, untouchable. Every inch they overlook, every glance they withhold, every word they fail to say only tightens the armour. I endure in silence, watching, measuring, existing in ways meant to be invisible, untouchable, impossible to break.
If anyone mistakes this for weakness, they’re wrong. This isn’t fragility. This is defiance. Every erased emotion, every hidden corner of myself, every scar carried quietly is proof I’m still standing. I don’t need applause, I don’t need witnesses. Survival doesn’t bend for recognition. Strength doesn’t soften for comfort. It waits. It watches. It endures, relentless, cold, unforgiving, while the world keeps looking the other way.
I’ve learned that the quietest battles leave the deepest marks. I’ve learned that erasure can be resistance. That folding yourself smaller, muting yourself, disappearing just enough, can be the sharpest way to survive. I’ve learned that the parts of me no one notices are the parts that carry the weight of everything I’ve endured and survived. And I won’t apologize. I won’t soften it for anyone. I won’t offer it up for validation.
The world can keep glancing, keep scrolling, keep assuming. I’ll stay, watching, surviving, armoured, unstoppable, untouchable. I’ll remain, cold, precise, and unforgiving, because this quiet endurance is my defiance, and it’s enough.
This is how society and life taught me to protect myself.