It started again.
The feelings. The bleeding.
The indents in my skin.
The waiting. The staring.
At the clock to move an inch.
The wanting to hide under my desk. In a corner.
Under the sink.
In the dark. In the closet.
A place where I could think.
About anything but how
I'm still pretending.
It feels like a performance everyone bought tickets for.
Expecting greatness.
An unlimited audience.
A constant improvisation. No rehearsal.
Some rehearsal. But unnecessary.
Because I change direction based on reactions.
To make sure the audience stick around.
Come for another viewing.
I need them to like me.
To come back.
Otherwise the show ends.
And I can't have that.
Because I'm an attention-seeking, narcissistic *****.
Or the main character. Or both.
No matter how much I hate it, the show must go on.