sometimes i wonder
if i am lying to myself.
too often i find
that i am creating
fiction out of the mundane.
perhaps that's the storyteller in me.
but also part of me knows
it's the scared little girl
always afraid of giving
too much away-
a magician
who keeps her cards up her sleeve
too careful to to reveal the trick
until the curtains close,
the audience bows out,
and the theatre is nothing
but an empty husk
of echoes and dead applause.

what you see
is nothing but an illusion
of who i wish i were
but how i wish
it were more than just a
carefully crafted fantasy.
this charade is getting old.
this heart is growing cold.
someday, gravity will catch up
with this fantasy,
and the walls will come tumbling down.
but till then,
i'll keep my story shut,
and repaint this smile
while the world looks
the other way