Perhaps,
I’ve always been right.
Somewhere. Some place.
My soul has whispered this:
I’m just a fake.
A pretence.
It’s all just a performance
to fit into all society labels.
Right—
A coat of white and black—cliché, right?
But forgetting,
there are always shades of gray.

Where things outside the box of what’s called “right”
don’t always seem so wrong.
A bearer of quiet light would agree.
So I let that settle in.

I act on impulse.
I seek help—but find none.
So I bend. Twist. To fit their gaze.
And behind those locked doors…
I give in.
I numb my way
out of feeling too much
and just never enough
for a world suffused with shattered glasses.

Afterwards…
I lie still.
Let the not-so-strangers come.
Guilt and regret drape my neck
like rocks tied to a chain,
pressing the air from my lungs,
as every breath inhaled—a battle.

Little liquid.
Little sobs.
My face wields them all.
Torn from inside out.
But it stays hidden.